


Delusion, deception and other forms of love

by Adrenalineshots



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Bad-mouthing of nobility, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Intrigue, Post-Season/Series 03, Season 3 Finale, hurt children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots
Summary: Aramis could barely remember her face, having lost her so many years ago. When a woman shows up at his door, claiming to be his mother, the newly appointed First Minister of France is at lost on what to believe. To make matters worse, d'Artagnan, the new Captain of the Musketeers, has happened to stumble across a murder plot so villainous that it can very well bring France to its knees





	

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This story was written for the **Musketeers Big Bang Challenge**. It was an immense pleasure to have been a part of this event, from which so many incredibly good stories came out, about this characters and the world they inhabit. So, my deepest thank you to **dont_hate_me01** , for putting this together and bringing us all to the finish line!
> 
> To my most awesome beta reader, **laurie_bug** , you're simply the best! (yes, you should definitely insert Tina Turner in there) You were always there, supportive to no end and amazingly efficient. Thank you so much!
> 
> To **jackfan2** , my hand-holder and fairy magic-dust sprinkler, thank you for, once more, sprinkling your magic all over my work, making it all the more shiny and better.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Spanish translations** :
> 
> Tu madre: your mother
> 
> Mi hijo: my son
> 
> Niña: little girl
> 
> Niño: little boy
> 
> Usted no lo habla tampoco... estás avergonzado de la lengua de tu madre?: You do not speak it either...are you embarrassed of your mother's tongue?
> 
> Caballito: little horse

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

Aramis had barely been a proper grown man, capable of growing a full beard, when he found a place for himself in the His Majesty's army. In those early years, he'd been just another soldier, another anonymous face among many, untested and free of lofty expectations from his superiors. By all outward appearances, he was merely one more able bodied man, capable of carrying a weapon against the enemy.

Circumstances, however, plotted to single him out as the most accurate sharpshooter that anyone had encountered in a long while. He gained a reputation for himself, as people started to believe that there wasn't a target on Earth that Aramis could not hit. He started to believe that himself.

Those whispered revelations soon found their way to Treville's hearing. It was enough for the newly commissioned Captain of the Musketeers to seek Aramis out when it was time to form the sort of elite regiment that the King desired.

Shortly after inviting him to the Musketeers, and perhaps finding in him a soldier with more experience than most, Treville had tasked Aramis with leading a small group of cadets, many barely younger than himself, into a forest near the southern border of France. It had been his mission to teach those with less soldering experience, all he knew about surviving on what would fit into their saddlebags and the joyous benefits and disadvantages of living in close quarters with other soldiers.

They should have returned from that mission a closely bonded group, able to trust each other with their lives and souls. Aramis had been cocky enough to believe he could achieve that.

It was a lesson they never stood a chance to learn.

Aramis had returned home with nothing more than the bodies of those cadets and the profound and most absolute knowledge that he would never have the ability to lead men anywhere else but to their graves.

A year after that, when, despite his lack of noble blood, Treville had offered him the chance to become his second in command; Aramis had no qualms in refusing the offer, excusing himself from the task by saying that there were far better men in the Regiment to fulfill such role. When the Captain turned to Athos instead, the marksman could have not been happier.

Now, as he sat on his desk overflowing with ledgers, papers and scrolls, Aramis wondered what had happened to that young man, to that soldier who had once refused to lead men because he thought himself unworthy of such task, only to now find himself accepting the challenge to lead an entire nation.

And a challenge it truly was, every single day, since the very first hour he had assumed the task.

At the beginning, the rest of the council had tried to intimidate Aramis by pouring all sorts of problems at his feet, trivial things that served mostly to waste his time and amuse them as they waited to see him scrambled for solutions.

Aramis had not given them such satisfaction.

Chaos, and the delicate art of handling more than one matter at the same time, was something that had always been a part of his life since a very young age.

When he was still with his mother, it had fallen on him the task of minding the numerous children living at the brothel. Although not much older than most of them, Aramis had a gift to keep them entertained and out of trouble when their mothers were working. The council members were, in a way, not much different.

As a soldier, there had never been such a thing as a trivial matter. Very early on, even before becoming a Musketeer, he had learned that it were, in fact, the simple things (like having a proper pair of dry, warm socks) that could mean the difference between life or death. So, when the council came to him for a decision on which type of cloth should be purchased in order to refurbish all the rooms at the palace, Aramis had merely smiled and handled the matter with grace and efficiency.

His time living at the monastery had proved beneficial for his current position as well. Brother Tomás had been a master of making an absolute feast out of a handful of potatoes, some flour and the right seasoning. While Aramis would never suggest such a departure from the delicacies to which the Royal family was accustomed, the small adjustments he had made to the way things were done within the palace walls had saved enough coin to almost fill the Royal vaults.

It didn't take long for the former Musketeer to gain a reputation for himself amongst the members of the council. Minister ' _adroit_ ', they called him on occasion, a backwards compliment that merely made them sound envious and frustrated. It mattered not. Aramis had been called worse during his life; being accused of competence was something he could well handle.

The council was not a place to find friends, that much Aramis had been aware of, even before attending his first meeting and one of the many reasons why he had never envied Treville in his position. It was a place for double meaning, back stabbing and frail allegiances. It was a battle front, every bit as vicious and ruthless. In these daily skirmishes, muskets had been replaced by words, and alliances formed among councilmen, in secret and always in opposition to any position Aramis held.

It was only behind the closed doors of his apartments or in the presence of his closest friends, that Aramis allowed his doubts and fears to surface. Above all, the First Minister fretted over the possibility of his position being nothing more than a graceful favor, granted by the Queen, so that he could be near his son and have a chance to watch him grow into a man.

No matter how many times Anne reassured him that he was indeed the right man for the position, Aramis remained uncertain. As a result, there were many nights when he would wake up tangled in his sheets, covered in sweat, bathed in the memories of his first experience as a leader, the images burning like ash over his tongue, stealing his breath away.

But for all that he feared to be a fraud and wholly inadequate for the office he had accepted, Aramis was aware that the position was not without its... incentives.

First and foremost, it afforded the First Minister of the Crown the unique position of being able to see and talk to the young King on a daily basis. It also allowed him to speak freely with the Queen without risking both their necks, to make himself believe that, within the confines of the palace, they were a family like any other.

It also made possible for him to finally do something for the people of France, other than to offer his blood as a soldier. Now, Aramis believed, he could finally make a difference and work towards making things better for those not born under a golden roof.

There were also some downsides that came with the position. A few, Aramis could have guessed from what he had seen and learned from Treville's actions and dealings. Like the fact that he had little to no privacy during his time at the palace, with servants and courtiers always surrounding him and demanding his attention. Even when he tried to take a bath, there would always be someone around, to help him with a task he had performed perfectly well on his own for most of his life. That small issue he had solved by firmly locking his door and placing a loaded pistol near his tub, for anyone moronic enough to use a spare key.

The only ones Aramis could not scare into leaving him alone were the two guards entrusted with the task of keeping him alive. Those answered directly to the Queen and, unfortunately, were more afraid of her than of anything he could throw at them.

Other downsides of his rise to power, however, had completely taken Aramis by surprise. Like the number of women who came knocking at his door, claiming to have given birth to a ridiculously high number of his offspring.

The first handful who had showed up, children in tow through the palace corridors, had taken him completely off guard. At the beginning, Aramis had wanted to believe that maybe, _maybe_ some of those children were actually his.

Some were even women he had slept with, at some point of his life. But the children's' age were all wrong, some being too old and others simply too young to have been sired by him.

Since the night he had spent with the Queen, the former Musketeer had kept to himself, his heart too full and taken to be distracted by any other woman. And then he had spent four years in a monastery, following celibacy so closely that his own friends would not have recognized him.

So, any children around the King's age or younger, Aramis knew that they couldn't possibly be his, for he knew only of one case of conception without the touch of a man... and while of few of them were called Mary, none of the women who had come to him could claim to be virgins.

It was the older children that caused him to doubt himself, making him think harder and look at the faces of the boys and girls, looking for some trace that he could recognize as his own. He never found one

"There's a woman here to see you, sir."

Aramis looked up from the scroll he was currently reading, a boring missive from some lesser lord, demanding an audience with the King to complain about a tree his neighboring lord had decided to cut down without his permission. He wanted, of all things, for the tree to be put back in its place.

Jonah, one of the King's distant relations who had come to Paris to learn the ways of the court, was at hand most days, to help Aramis with his appointments. He looked slightly ill at ease, as he waited for the First Minister to acknowledge him.

The former Musketeer sighed. "How old does the child look?" Aramis asked, his attention barely wavering from his papers. When nothing but silence answered him, he looked up again. Jonah was biting his lip, which was never a good sign. "More than one, then?"

"She doesn't have a child, sir," the young man pointed out, throwing a glance over one shoulder, even though the doors were closed. "Well, not with her, at least."

Aramis carefully laid the scroll on the table and crossed his arms as he leaned back into his chair. He could feel a headache coming. "We've talked about this, Jon... you're talking in riddles... again."

"Well, sir, it's just that... she said that," Jonah started, stopping himself to take a step closer to Aramis' desk. "She... she claims to be your mother, sir," the young man all but whispered. "I thought you said your family was dead, sir," he added in a rush.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. That was a new one. "So she is, for a long time now," he said, mildly amused. "Does she look like an apparition to you?"

The young man shook his head vigorously, dislodging a lock of hair from the carefully tied ponytail.

"Then she is a liar," Aramis concluded. "Tell her to leave before I have her arrested," he let out, annoyed that someone would stoop that low to get advantage of him.

Somehow, everyone seemed to be under the illusion that being the First Minister meant that his pockets were instantly and miraculously full. While that might have been the case with the Cardinal, with all of his schemes and being of a family of wealth prior to taking the position, it certainly was not something that held true for his successors.

Other than the fancy clothing that the Crown paid for, Aramis didn't had much to his name, certainly not enough to support the numerous 'relatives' who had suddenly decided to make an appearance. Even the deceased ones, it would seem.

"She warned me that you might say that, sir," the young man voiced, pulling his hands from behind his back. In his right hand was a wooden toy, a horse. "Told me to give you this as a proof of her claim."

The head of the animal had been smoothed over time, to the point of being nearly faceless and one of the front legs was broken, but Aramis had no trouble recognizing his favorite toy from when he was a child.

Even sitting down, the First Minister felt the world tilt and move around him, like he was trapped inside an hour-glass, sand escaping beneath his feet in rapid motion. It could not be...

"Sir...are you well?"

The words barely registered as Aramis sprung from his chair and crossed the room in large and determined steps. This...this imposter had gone too far! It was time he put an end to the matter.

Foul play was the only plausible explanation for the person behind that closed door or the toy clutched in his hand. His mother was dead, taken by illness a few years after he had moved to his father's house. At the time, he had begged his father to go and visit her grave, but the senior d'Herblay had prohibited Aramis from returning to the brothel where he had lived in his younger years. Two years passed before he could visit his mother's grave, after running away from home in search of Isabelle.

Aramis clutched the toy horse tighter, trying to remember when he had last seen it, if it was even the same one or simply a clever forgery.

He couldn't remember his mother's face, the lines blurred a long time ago, but Aramis could never forget her gentle eyes or the feeling of her hand upon his cheek. For a very long time, it was the only thing he could dream of ever experiencing again.

The wooden doors collided with the wall as the former Musketeer threw them open, startling everyone in the small waiting area. There were more people there than what he had expected, but it took Aramis no time locating the woman claiming to be his mother.

Air rushed out of his chest as his eyes landed upon a tall woman with dark, wavy hair falling down her back. She was dressed in a simple gown of earthen tones, her face partially hidden by a white mantilla over her head and shoulders. It could not be...

As she looked up, Aramis found himself gazing into the familiar olive eyes of a ghost. Moving as if trapped inside a dream, the First Minister marched forward, ignoring all enquiries about his well-being or calling for more guards.

She did not move, a gentle smile gracing her lips, her eyes taking in the man walking towards her without a trace of fear. Aramis stopped inches away, his lips parting to speak, only to find that words had deserted him completely. What was he to say to a vision not of this world? Call her _mother_ , when he had stood above her grave? Name her an imposter when she looked so familiar?

" _Hijo mio_ ," she voiced, opening her arms to welcome him.

Aramis recoiled from the words, their meaning too personal, the emotions that they awoke too strong to ignore. "Who are you?" he hissed, eyeing her waiting arms as if they were weapons, ready to strike. "What is the meaning of this?"

"René," the woman whispered in disappointment, lowering her eyes. "Has it been so long that you no longer recognize _tu madre_?"

Through the haze of questions and overwhelming feelings, Aramis became suddenly aware of the looks and whispered words surrounding them. This was not the place to handle such a matter, not with so many curious courtiers taking in each word and re-arranging them into the palace gossip of the day.

It had taken some effort for the people to accept Anne as a regent and forget about her Spanish origins, particularly when the country was at war with her brother. To have some Spanish woman claiming to be the First Minister's mother would not go well amongst the council and court. It would too easily give the impression that the governance of France was in the hands of the enemy.

Oh, the feast his enemies would have if they were ever to discover who his mother had been and her origins... He could hear them even now, venomous and angry: the First Minister of France, son of a Spanish whore!

For a moment, Aramis felt tempted to just nod at the men standing guard and allow them to take that woman to the cells below the palace. It would make his problem disappear and show everyone in that room that the woman's claims were false, that she was nothing but an imposter.

A small part of him, the nine year old who had cried all the way to his father's house, twisting around atop the saddle to catch one last look at his mother, that little boy was shouting at him not to send his mother to the dungeons.

"Come inside," he hissed, stepping aside to clear a path for her. "And be very clear in the tale you're about to tell," he added as she passed. "Or you'll be leaving in shackles."

The wooden doors closed behind them with a sound of finality, like the hammering of the lid on a coffin. Aramis took a deep breath to compose himself before walking slowly to his chair.

Whoever she was, this woman would not see the inner turmoil that she was stirring.

"Explain yourself." There was no trace of René in his voice, only of the First Minister of France, a man who answered only to the Queen Regent. "And I strongly advise you start by the part where a dead woman stands before me, drawing breath."

"Your father, he..." Her voice trailed off as she wandered around the spacious room, hesitating only briefly before sitting by the window. "Life was never easy, as I'm sure you remember, so when he offered me enough _lires_ to pretend I was dead and start a life elsewhere..."

"You accepted," Aramis spat, disgusted at her choice. This was not the brave and kind Catalina that he remembered; this was some shadow from the past that barely held a light to his mother's memory. "Why? What was the point?"

"Your father believed my existence was keeping you from moving forward, giving you illusions that you could return to your old life with me." Her eyes took on a more distant quality, as if seeing some vision of the past. "He had such grandiose plans for you, a position within the church… a career in Rome..." She smiled, casting a look at his attire. "I can see it was all for naught."

Aramis could not help but smile in return. Both his father and stepmother had wanted nothing more than for him to join the priesthood. The lands and distillery had been promised as a dowry for their older daughter and Aramis would have nothing to his name, unless he did as they wished.

Ironically enough, it had been the news of his mother's death that had brought Aramis and Isabelle together, as she offered him the kind of comfort and solace he could not find at home. Ultimately, it was the very thing that led to him to leave his father's house.

Catalina's story made some amount of sense, Aramis knew that, but looking at the woman by the window, he still doubted. She was the right age and, from what little he remembered, she looked like his mother. But other than a good story and a broken children's toy, he had no prove that she was who she claimed to be.

"Still you doubt me," she voiced his thoughts, smiling fondly. "You were always so bold and wild, impossible to control... I see age has made you into a more cautious man."

"I mourned you," Aramis let out, unable to mask the accusation in his voice. "You'll forgive me if my first reaction is not to jump blindly into your embrace."

Instead of anger or disappointment over his reluctance, the former Musketeer was surprised to see a tender, sad smile upon her lips. "Do you remember little Juné?" she continued, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You two were so alike that people always mistook you for brothers. Always running around like wild cubs, turning mine, and poor Maria's hair all grey from worry." She paused, quietly moving closer to Aramis' desk. "Do you remember the day he fell into the river?"

Aramis closed his eyes. It was one of the clearest memories from his childhood days, the horror he had experienced that day, as his friend disappeared under the water, the terrible realization that the two men and four women, standing nearby, were going to do nothing to help one of the bastards from the village's brothel. Not even stopping to think, Aramis had just jumped after his friend.

He could still remember the feeling of the cold water, biting into his flesh like sharp knives. Then the heavy darkness as he ducked below the surface and the absolute panic that, despite his effort, he would not be able to find Juné after all.

But he had found him, and had managed to pull his little friend from the cold river. No one, however, had been able to pull the young boy from the grip death had possessed on him already. Despite Aramis' labour, Juné had died that day, because he had been the son of a whore.

Aramis had been only seven at the time. Which would explain why, when his mother reached the river, shouting his name at the top of her lungs, fear dripping from every word. Aramis had dissolved in tears and collapsed in her lap, hiding from the rest of the world in the safe embrace of her warm arms.

"You were not so shy about accepting my embrace then," she recalled, watching his reaction closely. "Such a brave little boy you were... still are, I imagine. You told me you'd never forget Juné, that he would always be in your prayers... that you would grow up and dedicate your life to defending those like him..."

Breath hitched inside Aramis chest as he fought the sting of tears. He had whispered those words to his mother in the early hours of dawn when she had joined him in their room, exhausted sobs barely allowing him to speak. Veiled promises made by a child, declarations long forgotten until she had reminded him.

How could he have forgotten about little Juné, the poor boy who had sparked in him the initial flame to become a soldier?

"Is it really you?" Aramis finally whispered, his voice faint with emotion. He opened his eyes and watched her across the the span of his desk. Waiting for some sort of acknowledgement.

The woman didn't answer. She simply opened her arms, renewing the invitation of before.

This time, eyes heavy with tears, Aramis had no qualms about falling into her arms.

~§~

The garrison was, at the same time, familiar ground and a completely new world, like the fond memory of a place where you've never been before. After the explosion that nearly leveled the structures, the rebuilding effort had proceeded nicely; Aramis simply hadn't the time to visit and it astounded him how much had changed.

The Captain's quarters were still in the same place, but the staircase was now hidden from view, inside; there was still a balcony for him to watch over the men training, but it was a smaller one, no longer large enough to fit a table and chair.

The training grounds seemed larger, without the stables and the common room taking their usual space. In fact, he couldn't see them anywhere, so Aramis assumed that d'Artagnan had moved them to the back grounds. There was an abundance of space there, one that seemed to be finally put to good use.

But more than the buildings and construction had changed. The people were different too, new faces everywhere he looked. Younger too. Had he looked that young when he'd embarked as one of Treville's original Musketeers…?

He too, was different.

Once, Aramis had been able to walk around the garrison with no worries, just one more Musketeer amongst the brotherhood of soldiers.

That was no longer the case. Now, it was impossible to take a step without having someone stare at him, choking on their own spit as they realized _who_ he was. Some even went as far as _bowing_ as he walked by, something that, quite honestly, made Aramis' stomach turn every single time.

"You need to stop doing that," d'Artagnan's voice reached him from the darkness of an opened door, quickly followed by a sonorous bite into what sounded like an apple.

"Doing what?" Aramis asked, a scowl on his face as a cadet walked into a wooden post because he had been staring at the First Minister of France. "Walking? _Existing_? Or simply coming when you summon me?"

The Gascon let out a hearty laugh, dropping from the shadows to greet his friend with a hug. "It is always a pleasure to see you, First Minister," he said, the tone more endearing than respectful. "But last time you came to visit, I found myself with one cadet with a broken head, two with twisted ankles and another who, somehow, managed to set himself on fire... you're a menace to the peacefulness of this garrison, my friend!"

"You should be careful of those you bring into this place," Aramis returned with a smile of his own, clapping d'Artagnan on his back. "You're filling it with idiots."

"And you," d'Artagnan countered, looking around the yard in search of the First Minister's conspicuously absent guards, "...should be more careful with yourself. What have you done to them this time around?"

"Not my fault they're unable to keep up," Aramis supplied sheepishly. "The laundry quarter can be a dreadfully confusing place," he added with a smirk.

"Aramis..."

"They'll find their way here, eventually. Don't worry yourself so much," the older man said, dismissing the problem entirely. "Now, what is this urgent matter that could not be discussed at the Louvre?"

D'Artagnan sighed. "At least tell me you carry a weapon somewhere under all that brocade and silk," he eyed him speculatively.

"D'Artagnan, please," Aramis huffed, grinning dangerously as he pulled the long coat aside to bring his sword into view. "Do you really take me for a complete fool? Once a Musketeer…"

The Captain of the Musketeers did not look pleased with the answer but appeared to accept it nonetheless. Placing one hand over Aramis' shoulder, d'Artagnan turned them in the direction of his office. "It is my job to worry, my friend," d'Artagnan reminded him once more. "There has been some unrest, rumors circling..."

"About?"

The young man stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't wanted to worry you needlessly before being sure-"

The smile dropped from Aramis' face, knowing that he would not like the Gascon's next words. "What have you heard? Is the King at risk?"

The Captain shook his head. "A party of Musketeers was attacked last week, as you well know," d'Artagnan said, a grim look in his face as he recalled the two lives lost during that particular skirmish. "One of the bandits was carrying a letter with him, offering a hefty reward for the head of the Spanish usurper-"

"Anne?" Aramis offered, his tone low and dangerous as he imagine anyone daring to hurt the Queen. "We need to find out who-"

"Calm yourself," d'Artagnan said. The irony that he, of all people, was asking for someone else to temper their emotions, was not lost on either men. " _We_ will do nothing," he said, raising a hand in peace as he saw Aramis drawing breath to argue. "You cannot get involved, Aramis- well, not directly. I am looking into the matter personally, along with the best Musketeers in the regiment. We will find who has written those letters soon enough and deal with the matter appropriately."

Aramis shook his head, ignoring his reassurances. "The Queen's security must be reinforced! She must be protected at all time," the former Musketeer pressed. "We have t-"

"I'm not entirely sure that the Queen is the one under threat," the young man offered, looking straight at his friend's eyes. "She is not the only Spanish at court."

Aramis blinked, completely lost on the meaning of the Captain's words. The last Spanish ambassador in Paris had been murdered by Milady, on Rochefort's orders, and none had been sent to replace him, not after the two sovereign countries declared war.

"Constance still keeps a good amount of friends at the palace," d'Artagnan went on, shifting his look as he no longer could hold Aramis' intense stare. "They told her about... your latest visitor," the Captain pointed out, finally meeting his friend's eyes. There was a hint of betrayal in his expressive brown orbs. "You never mentioned anything about your mother, Aramis."

"Ah...gossip moves faster than me," the marksman said, looking none too pleased. He paused, blinking, as the meaning of d'Artagnan's words sunk in. "I'm not Spanish," he affirmed, knowing with almost absolute certainty that the threat could not possibly be to his life.

"And yet, you seem to have a Spanish mother," d'Artagnan pointed out.

" _Alleged_ mother," Aramis defended, unable to completely let go of his doubts. "And I was born and raised in France... how does that makes me Spanish?" he hissed.

"Your _alleged_ mother is currently living in your quarters and has no qualms about speaking Spanish all over the palace," the Captain pointed out. "You never told us that your mother was still alive, Aramis," the younger man said, looking disappointed over the apparent secrecy. "Why?"

"I didn't mention her," Aramis pointed out, "because I was made to believe that she was _dead_.

At his question, the Captain gave him a sideways look, confused. "Dead?" he asked, his eyes thinning to mere slants. "You mean you did not know?"

"Of course not," Aramis seethed quietly then gave d'Artagnan a second look. "Constance did not tell you about my past…"

"Constance?" D'Artagnan shook his head, puzzled. "How would she know anything about your mother?"

"Never mind…" Aramis shook his head, knowing he should have known better than to doubt Constance' loyalty and discretion. "Suffice it to say that news of my mother's death had been, apparently, greatly exaggerated and now she is back, wanting to be a part of my life," he confessed, knowing that his words made him sound like a lost and confused little boy. But then again, how was one to react in the face of regaining a long lost loved one?

"And you are certain that she is telling the truth?"

The First Minister shrugged. "As certain as one can be," he confessed with a sigh. "What would you do, if your father suddenly came to knock on your door?"

That gave d'Artagnan some pause, his eyes suddenly lost in the past. "I do not envy your position, my friend," he agreed after a moment, his hand returning to Aramis' shoulder. Suddenly, his eyes turned hard as he gazed upon the older man. "Does she know about you and the King?"

The former Musketeer squinted at him with a frown, not understanding the sudden turn in the conversation. Did the Gascon think him to be such a fool that he would tell his biggest secret to a woman he had only been reacquainted with for a handful of days?

"With this threat hanging over the palace," d'Artagnan's tone dropped to a mere whisper, "I mean, you and the Queen are not the only ones with Spanish blood in them, are you?"

Aramis' face lost all color at the mention of the King's heritage, the one secret that could ruin France in one fell sweep. "What does _that_ have to do with anything?" he hissed, looking around. Now, he was more than glad that d'Artagnan had asked him to meet at the garrison and not the palace. Inside there, at least, they could have some privacy, while at the Louvre the very walls seemed to have ears.

"Peace, Aramis," d'Artagnan said quickly at Aramis' obvious distress. "I ask only that you trust me to handle this matter and keep your eyes open, watchful and alert for those you love... and yourself," he asked, searching the Minister's eyes for understanding. "Will you do that?"

Aramis took a deep breath, his head jerking in agreement even as his mind raced at the possibilities. A murderous conspiracy, a killer intended on robbing him of either Anne or his son!

When he had entered the garrison, his mind had been at peace, thinking that a meeting with his old friend would be just the thing to ease his mind from the troubles of State and Crown. Now, Aramis felt like his heart was trapped in a vice, pushing harder and harder until it all but squashed.

~§~

"You look troubled, _hijo_."

Aramis closed his eyes, wondering how she could have noticed that just from him walking into his quarters and removing his hat. Traveling from the garrison back to palace, a usually short voyage, had become a nuisance. All the roads to the palace were bustling more than usual as preparations were already under way for the feast in two weeks time.

An open doors feast, while there was a murder plot underfoot.

Given what d'Artagnan had just told him, Aramis wanted nothing more than to cancel the whole matter in advance and lock Anne and the King behind closed doors, where they would be safe. However, he knew that was nothing but wishful thinking.

The feast was a celebration of the coming of Spring and the year's good harvest. Food had been promised by the Queen to any who came and the whole of Paris was alight with eager anticipation. Anne would never agree to cancel it, not after her promises to include the people in the Crown's celebrations.

"Nothing of importance, I assure you," he let out with a forced smile. The instinct to go to her and greet Catalina with a kiss as a son would with his mother, pushed him to walk in her direction, even if the intent never became action. Something inside stopped Aramis from making contact every single time, something he could not explain, always stopping him from showing her any sort of affection.

"It has been days, and still you do not trust me," Catalina said, sadness heavy in her voice. "Why do you not allow me to help you?" she asked, closing the distance between them.

When she held her hand to touch his face, Aramis could not help but close his eyes and sink into the touch. Long had he craved for such a tender caress, the likes of which only a mother could offer her son...

Aramis felt trapped within himself. He loved a woman that he could only touch in secret and a son that he could not claim as his own; Porthos was away in the battle front and Athos was traveling the country, with no desire to return to the capital.

The former Musketeer felt alone, starving for love and someone to touch him, to make him feel real.

He covered her hand with his, pulling her fingers away. It would be so easy to give in, to accept her offer of motherly love...

"Have you spent a pleasant day?" Aramis asked hastily, trying to mask his actions. The first few days had been awash with the two of them immersed in conversations over what had become of their lives after having parted ways. Now, it seemed there was very little of interest to exchange between the two of them, only the strained, unspoken uncertainties of Aramis' own heart...

At the beginning, Aramis had talked about Isabelle, about leaving his father's house, of joining the army and going to war until Treville had invited him to the Musketeers. He had even admitted to her that the former Captain of the Musketeers had been more of a father to him than his own blood had ever been and how his loss had left all of the Musketeers feeling like torn leaves in a storm.

Catalina, in turn, had told him about the fate of the other children at the brothel, as some grew old enough to start working there, like Pauline and Marie-Louise and even Pierre, and the others who had left as soon as they could fend for themselves, like Jacques, Philippa and the Poutier brothers.

" _I found Pauline here, in Paris," Aramis confessed, his initial smile slipping from his lips as he recalled the misfortune that had fallen upon her. "She had left as well, found a good man to marry...even if things didn't exactly end well."_

" _Poor Pauline," Catalina had let out with a heavy sigh as she heard the girl's sad story. "She was always such a dreamer...I cannot imagine what it was like for her to achieve all that she had always wished for, only to lose it all on a poorly planned solution."_

_Aramis blinked at her choice of words. "It was not a poorly planned solution, it was murder," he pointed out, even though it seemed pointless to him to mention the obvious. Pauline hadn't set out to kill that man on purpose, but she had been responsible for the decision to quieten his threats by pushing a knife into his back._

_It had been her good fortune, and the love between the two of them, that made St. Pierre decide to handsomely compensate the family of the murdered man from his pocket and send Pauline away, instead of involving the King or hanging her from the nearest tree._

" _Of course, mi hijo," Catalina agreed fast enough, even if her heart did not seem with it. "But it is just good to remember that, sometimes, the wrong path is the only one available to travel."_

The former Musketeer, with his upbringing as a son of a devout man and serving most of his adult years under the command of a man who valued honor above all else, had recoiled from such a concept like it were the plague itself.

Aramis had never forgotten the values that his mother had instilled in him since a very young age. The Catalina of before had taught him to speak the truth at all times and defend those who could not defend themselves; she had shown him that all souls were equal under God and all should be respected in the same manner...good values, a code of honor that had ruled his life from day one. A code that had made him the man he was today.

The woman in front of him in that moment, finding no qualms over the death of a man who had been defenseless and, ultimately, harmless, was not someone that Aramis could fit within the same tender image he had of his mother. Life, he presumed, had made different persons of them both. But still, some values should always be protected at all cost, or people risked losing themselves and who they were supposed to be.

His mother, it would seem, had lost herself. And yet, she expected Aramis to treat her as if she was still the same woman of his childhood years. He could not.

"The Queen invited me this afternoon to have tea with her and the King," Catalina let out, changing the subject with a smile. "That _niño_ is such a precious little child. So alive and courageous and bright!"

Aramis' heart thundered inside his chest, even if his face remained expressionless and calm. Under his elaborate vest, he was sweating like in the old days, when he spent endless hours on horseback, riding in the hot sun.

He had told Anne about Catalina, about who she used to be and her return to his life. More than the fact that she was the Queen and he owed her his devotion and utmost honesty, it had been impossible for him to not share his troubles with the woman he loved.

Anne had not batted an eye as she heard that the woman who had given birth to Aramis had done so in a brothel. She had not asked if his father had been a paying customer or a lover, nor had she been appalled by the fact that Aramis had other siblings, fathered by other men.

It was one of things he loved the most about the Queen, the fact that, despite her upbringing and protected life, she was aware and understood life outside palaces and castles. She understood that Aramis' mother, despite her peculiar line of work, had been a remarkably strong woman who had provided for her children and made sure that they lacked for nothing. In a world accosted by poverty and famine, it was more than most children could ever hope for.

Despite Aramis' doubts and misgivings, it was clear that Anne had become curious to meet Catalina. As she had pointed out, they both shared a country of birth and their love for him.

And she was the Queen, of course. Even sharing such deep feelings as they did, Aramis would bite off his own tongue before he told the Queen what she could or could not do.

So, of course, Anne had decided to meet Catalina.

In light of what d'Artagnan had told him, however, it was not the meeting between the two women that concerned the First Minister. While he trusted Anne to be cautious and cunning when dealing with the Spanish woman, the presence of the King during their meeting could provide more information than what Aramis was ready to share.

The King took after his mother in regards to his looks, with his cherubic face and golden locks. But his eyes, the way he behaved, his smile... there was too much of Aramis in there, for any with a clever eye to catch.

And if Catalina truly was who she claimed to be, the probability of her realizing the King's true parentage was too considerable to leave at him at rest.

"That was very generous of the Queen," Aramis commented, composed and seemingly unaffected. "What...what did you two discuss?"

Catalina lolled her head from one side to the other, thinking. "Small matters, trivialities, the festivities planned for the feast," she surmised. "Mostly she asked about your childhood and from which region of Spain I had been born..." She frowned at at the memory. "I couldn't tell her exactly, because I had been just a _niña_ when my parents traveled to France...she seemed disappointed with that, even though I was polite enough to keep our conversation in Spanish-"

"What?" Aramis sputtered, suddenly unable to keep his emotions at bay. "Do you realize that we are at war with her brother?" He could feel his own heart, a deep pulsing throb inside his ears. "What possessed you to force her to use that language?"

Catalina merely shrugged. "It is her mother's language," she pointed out. "Why should she forbid herself from speaking it, like it is a crime? _Usted no lo habla tampoco... estás avergonzado de la lengua de tu madre?_ "

Aramis took a deep breath, making himself pause long enough to not speak in anger. "No, mother, I am not. But because I am French, I see no reason to speak any other tongue other than my own," he voiced, in a clear and very Parisian French. "And also because, at the moment, Spanish is not the most welcome of languages at the palace, or on the streets, or even in the far most villages. So," he went on, walking towards the door, "I advise you to start refraining from using it before it leads you, or more importantly, the Crown, into trouble."

~§~

Gossip was the blood that made the court pulse with life. On a relatively boring day, it was the clothing choice of the ladies in waiting and the Queen herself that made the idle tongues waddle. If a nobleman or a higher member of the clergy decided to take on a new lover, the matter was discussed to exhaustion, whispering arguments on who it might be, how long it had been going on, whether the legitimate wife was aware or not.

If, in turn, one of the ladies found herself a 'close' friend, the discussion would become even more veiled, the finer points juicier and... detailed.

In one way or the other, court gossip always ended up reaching everyone's ears...except those of the person featuring the latest tale.

Aramis realized that he had become a part of the court's scuttlebutt when comments stopped being spoken in his presence and eyes started following him as he walked by.

Normally, it was not something that would even register in his attention. After all, this was the same gossipers who had come up with the ridiculous rumor that he was able to change into a horse during some nights of the year and -admittedly, the last part sent a shiver of pure horror down his spine- that he was the bastard son of the late Cardinal.

But in light of what d'Artagnan had told him, Aramis found himself looking more closely at the people populating the palace corridors and chambers, trying to place faces and names, wondering if any of them was there to harm the Queen Regent or Louis. That was when he noticed the way the courtiers were looking back at him.

Rumors, however, were not usually accompanied by the vile looks and Aramis found himself on the receiving end many, each with an air of disdain and distrust. This was not something he had seen in the faces of the courtiers since his first days as First Minister.

He walked down the corridor, his steps brisk, mind turning, combing through the last few days, trying to think of anything that could possibly justify such reaction, but his mind was coming up blank.

The affair between him and Anne had been going on for months now, and while it was not of common knowledge, it was a harmless suspicion harbored by most that no one could ever prove or contest. The Queen Regent, as a widow and the mother of the King of France, was free to have as many lovers as she wished and for her to succumb to a man with Aramis' reputation was not only predictable, but expected.

That the love between the two of them was older than the King himself, none of the courtiers seemed to have an inkling and it was paramount that it remained as such.

The only thing that Aramis imagined could justify the tension inside the palace was the one thing that he kept warning Catalina about: the reminder that he too had Spanish blood.

As he walked toward the Queen's apartments, Aramis could not help thinking that his every move and word was being watched closely.

Passing through the two guards outside her door, the First Minister made a note to himself to double their number and assure himself that every man under such duty was thoroughly investigated and could be deemed trustworthy.

"First Minister," Anne greeted him with a fond smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Aramis bowed to her, unable to resist responding to her smile with one of his, even as he took notice of the expressions of her ladies in waiting. There too, he could see the same disdainful expressions.

"Your Majesty," he responded, more formally than per usual. "If I could have a moment of Your time?"

Anne paused, noticing the stiffness in his stance and the concern lacing his voice. "Of course," she conceded, turning to her ladies with a gentle nod. "Leave us."

The two lovers stood in silence, watching the procession of women and servants exiting the room. As soon the heavy doors closed behind them, Aramis allowed himself to sag in relief.

"You look troubled, my love," Anne voiced, unknowingly echoing Catalina's words, as she laced her arms around his neck. "Is there something wrong?"

The former Musketeer breath in the flowery scent of her hair, giving in to the comfort the Queen was offering for the briefest of moments before leveling his eyes with hers. "You must consider canceling the feast," he promptly offered.

The Queen blinked, surprised at the request. After all, Aramis had been the one who had helped her plan it, the one who had procured most of the high lords' food donations that would be distributed by the people at the day of the feast. "You jest," she offered, a shy smile venturing across her lips.

Aramis sighed, knowing it had been foolish of him to hope to convince Anne to do anything without having to tell her about d'Artagnan's suspicions and warnings. Grabbing her hand, he raised it to his lips for a gentle kiss before pulling the Queen towards a chaiselong.

"D'Artagnan came across some troubling news," he started, sitting by her side before he told her all about the letter and the reward offered to kill the 'Spanish usurper'.

The Queen grew pale at the news, her light eyes filling with tears. It was not fear, Aramis knew that, but for the idea that there was someone who would hate her and her family so deeply that they were willing to end their lives.

"Until this matter is settled and for the safety of the King and yours," Aramis went on, "I beg you, Anne, cancel your plans for the coming celebration while there is still time... if it comes to pass, it will be too large of a crowd for us to control and make for the perfect opportunity to attack."

The Queen took a deep breath, pursing his lips in resolution. "And after that... are we to stay hidden, under our beds?" she asked, gazing into his eyes, begging him in return to understand the position she was about to take. "No, Aramis...if there is one thing that I respected about Louis, it was that he faced his enemies with his head held high," she recalled about her late husband. "And I have never seen you turn your back on danger. Instead, you embrace it like a lover," she added with a coy smile, before grasping his hands in hers. "Why should we teach our son otherwise?"

~§~

D'Artagnan looked at the man sitting in front of him, not even trying to hide the disgust the sight caused him.

It was not that the figure was particularly ugly, or disfigured, or even injured in a gruesome manner. He was neither, the broken nose and split lip notwithstanding.

It was what he represented that caused the Captain of the Musketeers such reaction. A man of convictions, even if it were the wrong convictions, and willing to do anything to achieve his goals, disregarding law, justice or even honor. A zealot of the worst kind.

Two of d'Artagnan's best men had followed the trail of the bounty letter to a village just outside Paris. Posing as thieves with no love for the Crown, it had not taken much time for someone to approach them and offer them a letter of their own.

From there, to finding the lair where the dissidents gathered, had not taken long. D'Artagnan himself had led the charge, blood flowing inside his veins in a manner that had been absent since his years at the front.

The bandits hadn't gone down easily. They had fought back, ferociously, with the kind of mindless courage that comes from fighting for something that they truly believed. The concept had left the Gascon feeling very much ill at ease.

"Who do they intend to kill? Is it the Queen? Who's offering the reward, humm?" d'Artagnan asked one more time, his face inches from the prisoner. From that close, he could smell the foul breath coming from the man's putrid mouth, as well as see the mad look in his eyes. This was not the type of man who would tell them what they needed to know, but he was the only one that they had managed to capture alive. "It's a lot of coin...coin that will never be yours; coin that is not worth your neck, not as it hangs from a noose."

The man simply smiled, looking at d'Artagnan like he was a simpleton who had no idea of what he was talking about, or what was happening.

As much as the Captain hated to admit it, the bandit was not that far off from the truth, at least about the part of not knowing what was going on.

"You shouldn't waste your time with that sort of street rubbish," a deep voice called out from the shadows. "He's probably so far down the food chain, he doesn't even know what food smells like."

D'Artagnan managed to hide the smile from his lips just barely, easily recognizing both the voice and the game being played.

In the latest of his monthly missives, the Captain had made one passing mention about the threat hanging over the King, Queen and even Aramis. It came as no surprise to him to see Porthos standing there, as if barely a day had passed since the last they'd seen each other.

Difficult interrogations were somewhat of a specialty for Porthos and Aramis. In fact, it had been one of the first moments when the standing members of the 'Inseparables' had left him absolutely astonished.

Back then, Aramis and Porthos were merely two strangers in need of his help to rescue a friend and Athos had been nothing more than the man who had supposedly murdered his father, and still they had left him in awe. He had not seen the two of them exchange a single word before questioning that crooked Red Guard, and yet the cunning way in which they had extracted the information they needed from their prisoner had seemed like the result of hours and hours of planning.

As he turned to greet General du Vallon with a subtle nod, d'Artagnan could see in his friend's eyes the same glint he had recognized then, that of a sharp mind able to twist reality into whatever he wished.

"In fact, I reckon the reward isn't even real," Porthos went on, winking as he passed the Captain. "I mean... who'd be _that_ stupid?"

The prisoner huffed, the words already spiking his anger even if he stoically kept his silence.

"General...are you here to take over the prisoner's questioning, sir?" the Gascon asked rather formally, playing along. The more power the prisoner believed Porthos had, the more he would feel diminished by his comments. And Porthos was truly a sight to be held in his full battle armor regalia.

Porthos stopped and glared at d'Artagnan with a look of such authentic offense, d'Artagnan was loathe to label it as less than genuine. In fact, if the Musketeer Captain hadn't known better, he'd be shaking in his boots. But as he did, it was all he could to to keep from laughing.

"Do I look like the sort of man who wastes his time with this sort of nonsense?" the General asked, aggravated. "I'm here to tell you that my men have captured someone who _actually_ knows something, so we'll be concentrating our attentions on him, rather than on this...subordinate," he said, almost spitting the last word.

"You're either lying," the man hissed, breaking his silence. "Or you're a fool with no bloody idea what you're talking about."

Porthos smile was predatory, closing in on his prey. "No idea, yeah?" he asked, eyeing the bloodied prisoner. "I know that if there truly was a plot to murder someone at court, the people behind it wouldn't involve a low life of the likes of you, who couldn't even get past the palace gates," Porthos pointed out, slowly circling the man.

D'Artagnan had seen wild cats doing the same as they hunted. It never ended well for the prey.

"I also know that scum like you is being used as decoy, without a bloody clue of what the true goals are, while the real players play," he went on, baiting the man. "And finally, I know that, by the end of the day, I'll know more than you'll ever know about what's going on and I won't even have to lift a finger for it. How's that for _no bloody idea_?"

The prisoner growled, surging forward against his binds. "You know nothing and none of the others will tell you a single thing!" the man shouted, veins bulging at the side of neck as he face grew red with anger. "And by tomorrow, there will be no point in knowing anything," he went, a smile creeping alongside his face. "Because by then, it will be too late."

"What does that mean?" D'Artagnan let out, stepping closer to the man.

"It means you two are more stupid than you look," the man said, his chin lifting in pride. "It means the killer is already at the palace, has been for weeks now, and there is nothing either of you can do to stop this from happening... no Spanish scum will rule over our country! France will prevail!"

Porthos was on him even before he could even finish, his hands grabbing a fist full of the man's clothing, nearly pulling him off the chair, ropes and all. "Have you ever seen a man with his bowls spilling out of his belly?" he asked, a soft spoken question that contrasted heavily with the violence of his actions. "Nasty thing, that is," he went on, matter of factly. "Death doesn't come soon enough, plenty of time for a man to watch his insides dragging across the dirt and rotting in the air..." he finished, the threat clear, hanging in the air between them.

The bandit resumed his silence, staring defiantly at Porthos vengeful countenance.

The chair creaked and moaned as, suddenly free from Porthos' hold, the bandit fell back down. Still, he said nothing.

"Musketeer, your _main gauche_ ," the General commanded, his eyes never straying from the bandit's face, holding his gaze. He opened his hand behind him, closing his fingers around the dagger as he felt cold metal touch his skin.

D'Artagnan forced himself to stay back, praying that Porthos' bluff would bear some fruit. Inside his chest, his heart was pounding at the possibilities. He hoped to God that the man was lying, living his illusions as if reality and assuming that the plans he had devoted his life to were near completion. But what if the scariest prospect was the one they were facing? What if he was actually speaking the truth?

Inside the palace, more than five hundred people labored, cleaning, dressing, cooking, serving, guarding, gardening, tending the animals... and there were also the courtiers, visitors and acquaintances of the Crown that cluttered the Louvre at any given day.

Impossible seemed like a too gentle word to describe their odds of finding the killer amongst such a crowd before it was too late. And now, his and Aramis' worst fears seemed to have come to life, as the prisoner confirmed that it was indeed at the Royal feast that the killer intended to bring their plans to fulfillment.

If this man failed to give them a name or, at least, a description of the killer, all would be lost.

Porthos poised the tip of the dagger over the man's belly, just the barest of pressure behind the touch. "Last chance...who is the killer?"

The bandit closed his eyes, whispering a prayer. As they opened, it took merely a glance of the prisoner's gaze for d'Artagnan to realize what he was about to do. But by then, it was already too late.

With an angry shout, the prisoner lunged forward, as far as his ropes allowed him to. As close as it stood, it was more than enough to plunge the dagger deep inside his stomach.

"No!" D'Artagnan shouted, charging forward, his mind still trapped in trying to avoid something that had already happened.

By the time Porthos realized what the desperate man had done and pulled the dagger away, the bandit was already gasping for his last breath.

"Shit!" the General let out, dropping his facade and grabbing at the man's face in desperation. "Give us a name, you filthy swine! Tell us!"

The only answer they got was the sound of blood gurgling, filling his mouth and him choking. It lasted but a few seconds, before the bandit's eyes grew glassy and vacant as his spirit moved on.

The two friends stood there, looking at the dead man, too stunned to move or speak. D'Artagnan had not seen Porthos since his departure to the front, to lead the Royal army and for over seven months, there had been nothing more that he had wished for than to embrace his brother. Now, as it were, seemed like an odd situation to do it.

"You heard him… they plan to murder the Queen," he surmised. "We have no choice but to cancel tomorrow's feast," Porthos declared. "'tis the only way to make sure Her Majesty stays safe."

The Captain ran a hand through his hair, his eyes still trapped by the gory figure of the dead prisoner. "Aramis tried, as soon as the first letter was found," d'Artagnan informed him. "The Queen was most adamant about proceeding with the festivities."

"Yea... but back then you didn't know what you know now," he reminded. "Surely she will see reason..."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Her mind will not be changed on the matter...what we need is to discover who this assassin might be."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "Have you become soft in head? How are we supposed to achieve that sort of miracle?"

"I have my suspicions," the Captain let out, the grim look upon his face telling that it was not something he was overly fond of. "Does Aramis know you're in Paris?"

"My _wife_ doesn't know I'm in Paris," Porthos emended with a sigh. "I came straight here from the front."

The Gascon smiled, as he thought of the wild spirit of Elodie and the revenge she would take upon her husband when she learned about _that_. "Well, we shall keep her waiting for a little bit longer... we must speak to Aramis urgently."

~§~

Porthos narrowly escaped colliding with another palace attendant, yet again. Standing off to one side, he watched in amazement at the surrounding chaos.

He had seen battlefields with less people milling about than the palace grounds at the current time. Everywhere he looked, there seemed to be a legion of servants moving in seven different directions, like swarms of bees, buzzing around every free space.

He pulled closer to d'Artagnan, raising his arms to avoid an incoming collision with a skinny man whose arms were filled with loaves of bread.

Porthos growled. If there was a place where space had never been an issue, the Louvre was certainly it. Now, he felt like a giant, stomping all over an ant colony. "Where in hell are Aramis' quarters?" he let out under his breath, pushing himself against the wall to let a flower arrangement walk by. Of the woman carrying it, he could only see a yellow skirt. "This is more dangerous than the front..." he mumbled, eliciting a chuckle from his younger companion.

"Right at the end of this corridor," d'Artagnan supplied, nimbly side-stepping a pair of servants carrying a block of ice between them.

"How may I be of service?" a man, younger than d'Artagnan, stepped in front of the pair as soon as they reached the close doors.

Porthos, never having seen the scrawny fellow before, barely paused, intended to move past him and the guards at Aramis' door like they were nothing but window drapings. He was certainly not accustomed to having anyone stopping him from seeing his friend. "You can't," he let out, turning the handle. "Now, move aside little man, we have business with the First Minister."

The hand that wrapped itself around Porthos' wrist was not particularly strong, but the grasp was determined. "I am terrible sorry, _Monsieurs_ , but the Minister is currently occupied," the young man said, unflinching as he stared up at the General. "If you would just return at a later ti-"

Porthos turned to d'Artagnan, his eyebrow raised in both utter astonishment and a silent questioning on how violent he should get with the fragile looking youngster.

The Captain of the Musketeers looked like he was having too much fun with the whole situation to be of any help. "This is Jonah du _Bourbon_ ," he eventually supplied, emphasizing the family name hard enough for Porthos to realize that it would be a terrible idea to break the man's face. "Aramis' aide in all matters of State and Court." He turned his attention back to the young man. "Do you know who _we_ are?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jonah's smile was hollow as he gazed took them in, from the top of their unruly hairs to the tip of their well-worn and dirty boots. "General du Vallon and Captain d'Artagnan, of course," he readily supplied, the names obviously meaning nothing to him other than the positions they occupied. "I shall inform Minister d'Herbl-"

"That won't be necessary, Jon, thank you," Aramis' voice broke through the argument even as he pushed the heavy door open. "I believe I'm already well informed of their presence," he added with a wink towards his friends. "Come now, before he makes you an appointment three months from now," he whispered, hushing his friends inside.

"Feisty little thing, isn't he?" Porthos said as soon as the doors closed, still peeved at the way the young man had behaved.

Aramis chuckled. "He is, perhaps, a little too attached to protocol and Court procedures," he defended the young man. "I thought my ears were drunk and imagining things when I heard your voice outside," the First Minister went, falling into a tight embrace of his friend.

Unlike the last time they had come together after a time apart, Porthos returned his friend's greeting with a warm one of his own. "You're getting skinny again," he growled, feeling every one of Aramis bones under his strong arms. "Don't they feed ya in this place?"

Aramis smiled fondly. It had been the basis for many of their more heated arguments, the former Musketeer's finicky appetites and the General's belief that food was to be respected and eaten whenever present.

"What brings you back to Paris?" Aramis asked.

" _D'Artagnan_ told me what was happening," Porthos explained, his tone leaving it clear that the fact that Aramis had not mentioned the matter at hand in his last letter, had not gone unnoticed, nor would it be forgotten. "There I was, _being brilliant_ in my battle planning," he pointed out, leaving no room for false modesties, "and entertaining myself with thoughts of how bored you must be trapped inside the palace, away from danger and adventure, no men to shoot at... and I discover that, instead, you're getting yourself right in the middle of a rebellion!"

"It's hardly a rebellion," Aramis muttered, walking around his desk to find the bottle he had hidden in one of the drawers. "I made no mention of it because I imagined your presence was more valuable at the front," he added, throwing a disapproving look towards d'Artagnan, "...than solving our little mystery."

"A member of our _little mystery_ let it slip that a killer is already in place, here, at the Louvre," d'Artagnan informed.

~§~

The glasses that Aramis had been gathering clattered against each other as he held them too tightly. He had been harboring a faint hope that this threat, like so many others they had encountered before, would be nothing more than fantasies and fabrications of dissatisfied Frenchmen, people tired of the war, of going hungry and who believed that killing someone with noble blood was the solution for every problem. That hope was now shattered.

Aramis looked at his friends. "What have you learned?" he asked, all joviality gone from his voice.

"Not much," Porthos grunted. "Bastard killed himself before we could find out more."

"All we know is that there is someone at the palace with the intention to kill the Queen and that he plans to do it tomorrow, at the feast, just as we feared," d'Artagnan explained, accepting one of the glasses Aramis offered him and Porthos.

Aramis' heart sunk as he heard those three simple words ' _kill the Queen'_ , as if their sound alone could do Anne some mortal harm. The liquid inside his glass shook as his hands tremble, before he set it on the desk, his throat too tight to accept any drink. "Perhaps he was lying?" he pointed out, hopefully.

It would not be the first time that bandits lied to save their own skin, or out of fear of someone less honorable than Musketeers. "No one is accepted in service of the Queen without the highest of references and none of the recently hired servants has had any contact with her..." Aramis went on.

"He wasn't lying," Porthos stated with the confidence of a man used to tricks and deceit. "And that's all good and dandy for the Queen, but what about you?"

Aramis locked a steel gaze upon them. "What about me?"

"You disregard your own safety on a daily basis, under normal circumstances," d'Artagnan pointed out, having no qualms about throwing at his face all the times Aramis had slipped the care of his guards. "We cannot protect the Queen efficiently if we're instead worried about you placing yourself in harms way for her safety."

Porthos nodded, joining the firing squadron, it would seem. "He's right, you know… I've known you fer years now, and more than anyone, I know you can't be trusted with your own safety."

"I was a soldier for far longer than I am a Minister," Aramis reminded his friends, bitterly. "I can well take care of myself," he added, taking a large gulp from the brandy in his glass. "How do we find this man?"

"Or woman," d'Artagnan added, casting a look towards the former Musketeer.

Aramis' astute mind didn't needed much to make the connection that the Captain was so bluntly implying. "I see you already have your suspect," he voiced coldly.

"You told me your mother died when you were a young boy," Porthos pointed out, making it obvious that the two of them had already discussed the matter before seeking him. "How can you even know if that woman is who she claims to be?"

It was a valid point, but one that, under the circumstances, Aramis was not ready to concede. "You were even younger than me when you lost yours," he threw at Porthos, not enjoying the manner in which his friend flinched at his words. "Would you turn your back on a woman claiming to be Marie-Cessette, just because you believed her dead? Call her a murderer and suspect of her intentions for seeking out her son?"

"I saw my mother die, Aramis... there's no coming back from that," Porthos pointed out, his eyes sad and distant.

"You were barely a toddler! What did you know of death then? I-" Aramis paused, fighting to regain control over his emotions. "I was forced to leave my mother behind to a life of struggle and poverty, without a chance to tell her all that I wished to say, of how important she was to me...I would rather believe that she is at the gardens, right now, than to live with the knowledge that she died alone, in a whore house."

Porthos closed his mouth, his eyes softened in sympathy.

The former monk closed his eyes, unable to watch such sentiment in his friend's gaze. He did not want their sympathy, he needed their understanding.

But, like it had been the case so many times before, that was not to happen. If there was one thing that he had learned about d'Artagnan from the first time he had laid eyes on him, was that when the Captain of the Musketeers had something on his mind, he would not let it go.

"Wishing for it to be real doesn't make this woman your mother above all doubts," d'Artagnan pointed out, not unkindly, even if his words stung.

"It doesn't make her your killer either," Aramis countered, his voice hard and filled with authority. "Find your murderer elsewhere... I vouch for Catalina, on my honor," he added.

"Aramis..." Porthos' tone carried a silent warning about the mistake he was making. "You can't ignore the facts, the coincidence of her arrival and this plot being uncovered," he pointed out. "Use your head, mate!"

"She has perfect access to the Queen, dammit! She is living in _your_ quarters!" d'Artagnan exploded, his hot Gascon temper taking the better of him. "Most of the courtiers believe her to be your mistress rather than your mother and the other half is certain that she is a Spanish spy, and yet you turn a blind eye to all of that!"

Aramis listened in silence, even as anger started to boil inside his chest. These were his friends, his brothers in arms, and yet, here they were, dismissing his feelings and intelligence, treating him like a child.

Catalina had been at the palace for weeks now and never once he had found any reason to believe her dangerous. Callous and dismissive of the tension between France and Spain, certainly, but never outright dangerous.

It grated on his heart to impose his will over the arguments of his closest friends, but the fact remained that he was the First Minister of France and their ranks placed them both below him. "You have until tomorrow to find your killer," he told them calmly, his voice unwavering and soft. "I suggest you make good use of your time," Aramis added, dismissing both as he walked around and sat at his desk.

Porthos and d'Artagnan stood for a minute, looking stunned by his apparently unreasonable choices. When they finally turn to leave, Porthos muttering a curse under his breath, Aramis sagged against his chair, doubt assaulting him viciously and cowardly.

What if they were right?

~§~

Aramis stared at the window in his bedchamber, watching and waiting to see as light slowly pushed away the darkness of the night. The sun, however, seemed particularly late to rise on that day.

He had not been able to close his eyes for a single moment, his mind filled with nefarious possibilities and planning ways to stop the Anne and their son from placing themselves at risk that day.

The words of a dishonorable man could never be trusted, nor could the values behind such type of uprisings, for there was always something more, some darker reward other than patriotism and defense of the royal line.

Aramis had seen the very same actions when Marie de Medici had tried to steal her son's throne. For those under her orders, the recruiting creed had surely not been for them to fight for a greedy old woman, who had always dreamt of power for herself. No, to those outside her inner circle, their belief was that they were fighting for France, doing whatever was necessary to put the rightful King in the throne.

The man d'Artagnan and Porthos had questioned might have been acting under the guise of ridding the throne of Spanish influence by killing the Queen, but those behind such treachery would want more, much more. With a regency seat made empty by the Queen's death, they would want to seat someone in throne of their own liking… and that meant that the King would be at risk just as much as Anne.

It was one of the few instances where the differences between his upbringing and the Queen's were all the more clear and profound. While both would face any challenge with honor and courage, Aramis could not understand the need to place any child, especially the King, in the same kind of danger that the two of them were prepared to face.

Anne, on the other hand, had been taught to believe that nothing surpassed a monarch's duty, not fear, not pain, not even young age. Royalty was not entitled to personal feelings or emotions and they existed solely to command and serve the people.

For the first time since he had laid eyes on the Queen of France, Aramis felt deeply frustrated with Anne's strong will and resolve.

To add to his growing frustration, Porthos and d'Artagnan had ignored his wishes to join the search for the assassin, clinging to the ridiculous idea that Aramis too could be a target and should not be placing himself at risk. Treating him like he had not been a soldier for his entire life.

Now, he was left to rise and face a day in which half the people he most loved were in mortal danger and the other half wanted him to do nothing about it. Worse yet, the person that the General and the Captain of the Musketeers suspected, above all else, to be the killer, was the same woman claiming to be his mother.

Aramis growled in disgruntlement and rose to his feet. If only he could snap his fingers and make the entire day disappear...

After, unsuccessfully, chasing his tiredness away with a few splashes of cold water, Aramis dressed in his fine clothes and party garments, feeling like he was preparing to go to war in nothing but his breeches. His sword and pistols, though they clashed with the rest of the First Minister's attire, were not to be left behind, as always well hidden under his long robe.

Aramis met d'Artagnan and Porthos outside, just as the sun finally graced them all with its presence. They looked as well rested and happy as he felt. "Tell me good fortune smiled upon you two," he begged, not even bothering to greet his two brothers.

The disappointed looks that the General and the Captain shared between them told Aramis all there was to know.

"We spent the night talking to all the servants and help around t'house," Porthos said, scratching his beard. "All of the new hired hands have been ordered to not work today and the others are under strict instructions to tell us if they show up anyway, or if they see something fishy."

Aramis grimaced. It was the same decision that he would have taken, eliminating as much of the threats as they could, but Anne would not find it amusing to have her palace workers reduced to half on such a busy day.

"And the courtiers?"

D'Artagnan sighed, looking back at the palace with a hard gaze. "The lords and ladies were not overly happy for having their rest _disturb_ during the night," he explained, his lips stretching into a murderous smile. "Of course, being reminded that they would be deemed as accomplices in a plot against the Royal family, if they refused to cooperate, went a long way to get their tongues waggling… they talked a lot, but, ultimately, they knew very little," he finished, twisting his nose in frustration.

"Absolute pricks and bastards, the lot of them," Porthos corrected. "But they seemed to share one common suspicion," he added, turning to look poignantly at Aramis.

The First Minister closed his eyes, all but growling in frustration. He knew all too well what the Court's opinion on Catalina was. "Like you said... they're pricks and bastards," Aramis defended halfheartedly. "They do not take kindly to those who are different, something I know you understand better than most," he said, staring back at his dark skinned friend.

How many times had he seen Porthos being mistreated by others, considered to be less than a free man, or even a French man, merely because of the color of his skin? How many occasions had Aramis stood proudly by Porthos' side as, together, they proved to others that they were wrong and utter fools, for believing in such nonsense? How many fights had he faced alone, because someone had dared to speak ill of Porthos behind his back and he could not -would never- stop himself from defending his friend's honor?

"It's not the same thing, and you know it," Porthos hissed, lowering his voice as he noticed the unwanted attention they were gathering. "She's _Spanish_ ," he went on, grinding the words between his teeth. "And the Spanish are our enemy!"

"She is my _mother_ ," Aramis countered in hushed tones. For the first time since Catalina's arrival, the words felt true and right when spoken. For the first time, he felt his heart ache to see someone speak of her with such hatred. "She is my mother," he repeated more gently, holding Porthos' gaze. "In your eyes, does that make me the enemy as well, my friend?"

The General seemed to deflate before their eyes, his imposing figure crumbling upon himself as Aramis' words registered.

"Aramis... you can't possibly mean that," d'Artagnan called out, trying to pacify the conversation. "You're not even Spanish, you've said so yourself."

"Tha-...that's not...you're _French_ ," Porthos whispered, his face mirroring the confusion inside his heart. "You've always told us you're French."

The former Musketeer knew he had no one else to blame for such assumption other than himself. While Porthos had always been proud and had never sought to hide the origin of his ancestries on his mother side, Aramis had never openly spoken about his.

France had not always been at war with Spain, but the deals between the two Kingdoms had never been peaceful, even after the marriage alliance between Anne and Louis. It was easy for him to forget about his mother's side of the family, about the one trip to Seville when he was five, where he met his aunt and cousins, or about the lullabies that his mother would always sing in her childhood's tongue.

His looks made it simple enough to fit in. People looked at him and saw just another French man, his Spanish traits easily blending in with the French folks from the south, like d'Artagnan himself, only becoming more evident when people wished to be suspicious and malicious.

In his heart, Aramis was French, he would always be French. He loved Paris, he lived to serve the French Monarchy and he would die to defend his country and sovereignty, even if the King had been anyone else other than his son.

It hurt to be judged by others, _by his brothers_ , on a crime as vile as having parents and be deemed less because of his origins.

"Look for me if you discover anything of importance," Aramis said instead, his tone subdue. "Otherwise, I wish you luck, my friends, and that sun-down may find us all still alive and well... for anything else might mean the end of France as we know it," he declared, turning away and leaving his two stunned friends behind.

~§~

At some point, Aramis found himself wishing for something to happen, merely to make the endless waiting _end_. It had been hours since the Louvre's grounds had been opened to the inhabitants of Paris, bag after bag of food being handed over to those in need.

The general feeling was one of festivity and happiness, and yet he could not let go of the frown on his face. It was making his head hurt mercilessly.

His eyes were watchful, mindful of every sudden gesture, judging and carefully scrutinizing every single person who came too close to the Queen Regent or the King. His ears were sharp, searching for the familiar sound of a pistol ready to fire, for the slide of metal across metal as a blade left its scabbard.

Every time Anne or Louis ate or drank anything that had been placed on the feast tables, Aramis could feel his stomach coil and ache, as he waited for the dreadful signs of poisoning. He had spent so many hours tense and on edge that he could feel his muscles stiff and aching, his hands trembling by his sides.

The King, despite his young age, had endured the long hours of receiving and greeting the several members of Court with grace and a maturity far beyond his years. So, when he had shyly asked his mother if he could ride his pony for a few minutes, Anne had been more than happy to grant him his wishes, as a reward.

Watching his son, riding his little horse around the rose bushes in the gardens was something that never failed to bring a smile to Aramis' lips. Now, despite it all, it was no exception. The small boy was a natural rider, following the animal's movements to lead where he wished to go, rather than trying to contradict them.

Louis looked at ease and happy on a saddle and that, in turn, made the First Minister feel happy and at ease.

The loud explosion and following commotion that came from the kitchens shattered the peaceful moment, finally bringing with it the chaos that Aramis had been expecting since he'd risen from bed.

His heart racing, the former Musketeer's first instinct was to assure himself that Anne and the King were safe. The Queen had been hushed towards the chapel, a group of Musketeers and d'Artagnan himself surrounding her, efficiently and quietly moving her away from the crowd. And the King...

Aramis looked around, hoping to see little Louis in the arms of one of the Musketeers closer to the Queen, or one of the servants carrying him to safety. The King, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"Louis!" Aramis called out, his voice quickly lost in the midst of the frightened, screaming crowd. From the kitchens, he could see black smoke and wisps of fire reaching out through the windows, like dark fingers with bloody nails, scratching the sky.

There were people rushing in and out of such inferno, fighting to save as many as they could.

The poor people of Paris, caught in such a pandemonium, seemed undecided on whether to help those in danger or help themselves to what had been left on the tables.

For the First Minister, however, there was only one task. He needed to find his son.

"Have you seen the King?" he asked, desperate, to every Royal Guard or Musketeer that crossed his path. "The King? Has anyone seen His Majesty?"

In the turmoil, his eyes crossed with Anne's and, in that fleeting moment, an entire conversation took place between the two. One look at Aramis' grim expression and the Queen suddenly realized that their son had not been taken to safety as she had hoped and was, in fact, missing.

All color slipped away from her face and she wavered in the air, her eyes seeking his, looking for the reassurance that, even though she would never be allowed to help, Aramis would do anything in his power to find Louis safe and sound. It was the only reassurance that the former Musketeer could offer her before he turned and left.

Porthos large frame was easy enough to spot, his tall friend amongst those helping rescue the victims inside the kitchens. The General had his face covered in soot, white teeth showing his grim resolution as he pulled a heavy block of wood up, easing the way for two servants to escape.

Aramis heart clenched, hearing the screams of those still trapped inside. Even though their duty was towards the King and he could use Porthos' help, he could not in good conscious ask his friend to turn his back on those poor souls who would die otherwise.

"Minister!" a woman called out. From her spotless, satin clothes, she could only be one of the ladies of the Court, even though Aramis could not recall her name. "I believe I saw the King, down there."

Aramis stopped short from grabbing her by the arms and shaking the words from her. "Where?"

She pointed towards the gardens. "On the path to the left," she explained. "The one that leads to the pond."

"Alone?"

The woman bit her lower lip, looking at the tip of her lacy shoes, showing just under the long dress. "No," she voiced, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "That woman was with him... the Spanish lady..."

Aramis had no need to hear anything further as he raced towards the path. He had been a complete fool, allowing for a complete stranger to gain such an easy access to the King, facilitating Louis' trust on a woman that was clearly there to kill him.

Distantly, he took notice of the little things along the road that told him that he was on the right track. Like the small hooves imprints on the ground, too far apart to belong to an animal trotting at a leisure pace, or the piece of blue silk draped across a bush that had once been a part of the robe King had been wearing that day.

"Louis!" he called out, still hoping that the woman had seen it wrong and the King had simply veered away from the gardens on his own. "Your Majesty!"

The pond, as some of the Court members referred to it, was more of a lake that flowed into a small river and later joined the Seine. It was deep and its waters treacherous due to a number of underwater holes and caves. If Louis had fallen into it...

King was lying down, on the ground, right next to water's edge, unmoving. Near him, kneeling on the wet grass, was Catalina.

"Get away from him!" Aramis barked, his voice growling and menacing, even as his right hand flew to the pistol by his side. "Now!"

Fear and anger stole his breath away, turning his legs into lead and making the distance seemingly twice as long as it truly was. Aramis dropped next to the King, feeling like time had frozen still.

His fingers, trained to help others when injured for so many years, were tremulous and uncertain as he sought for signs of the child's beating heart. Aramis sagged in relief when he felt a strong pulse pushing against his touch.

There was blood matting the little boy's curls, turning his hair more ginger than blond. It seemed like the oddest of times, but the distant memory struck Aramis without his willingness or consent.

He remembered his mother with a clarity that had been absent for years. He could almost see her coming inside their room, her figure nothing but a blur of light, as the morning sun spilled through the window and flooded the tiny place in a pure, white glow. He remembered thinking that his mother had looked like an angel in that particular moment, in her white dress and with her reddish hair flowing across her shoulders in a careless braid. Her _reddish hair_ , a trait she had shared with her sister and more than a few of Aramis' cousins.

He, on the other hand, had taken after his father, with the d'Herblay nearly black hair.

"You are not my mother," the First Minister stated, all remains of doubt missing from his tone, staring at the brunette. "You are nothing but a murderer and a traitor and I shall see that you hang for this!"

Looking at the woman properly for the first time since arriving by the lake, Aramis was taken back by the tears streaming from the imposter's eyes, covering her cheeks in wet trails.

"I couldn't stop him," she whispered. "Poor boy...I just couldn't..."

Pulling the King closer to him, Aramis raised his pistol higher, ignoring her distress. "Tell me who you are and who paid you to do this, and even though you do not deserve, I shall make your death a quick one."

The woman sobbed, looking between the senseless boy to face the former Musketeer's cold and hard stare. "I—I did nothing to the boy... you must believe me," she stammered, taking a step back as if noticing the pistol in Aramis' hands for the first time. "I could never harm a child...René, I—"

"Do not call me that! I have had enough of your lies!" the marksman barked, sending most of the birds nearby flying in fright. "Does anything that comes pass your lips even resemble the truth?"

The woman wiped her tears away, even if fresh ones quickly replaced them. "The explosion scared the King's _caballito_ ," she explained. "I ran after him, worried where it might end and..." she stopped, sobbing, "...he fell before I could reach him."

Aramis refused to listen to one word coming from that woman's mouth. The King's pony was nowhere in sight and the only thing he could see, was his son with his head bloodied and a person who he had no reason to trust, standing next to him.

"Who is behind this?" he asked again, his tone giving no quarter. "Answer me! Who?"

"I don't know their names," she confessed. "Two men, lord-looking, well dressed and wearing expensive wigs...paid me to come here and pretend to be your mother," she said with a sigh, raising her hands to hide her face in shame.

"Why?" he growled. Even though he knew she had been paid to kill the King, he wanted to hear her say the words.

"They found out about Catalina, about your mother," she went on, "said I should speak as much Spanish around the Court as possible, make everyone think that you were the enemy," the woman explained. "And then, once your reputation was discredited, I was to reveal everything about your past..."

"No," Aramis let out, stopping her. He grasped the King tighter against his arms, silently praying for the little boy to wake up. "Speak the truth...I already know about the plot to kill the King, so... Cease. Your. Lies!"

" _Kill_ the King?" she let out, sounding genuinely horrified at the prospect. "Why would I harm such a sweet, little child? What monster would do that?"

"Why should I believe you?" Aramis spat out, rising to his feet with the child in his arms. He needed to get the King to the palace and a physician. "Walk," he ordered, pistol held in his left hand, pointed at her even as his elbow supported the King's head.

The woman trembled, lips quivering as she hurried to obey. "Do you not remember me, not even one bit?" she stammered. "My little boy loved you so much..."

Aramis blinked, suddenly realizing who she was and how she knew so much about him and his mother. The mother of his childhood companion, Juné. "Maria?"

Before she could explain her identity, the woman froze, not because of the name he had called her, but for what both of them heard. The soft sound of a twig snapping in half as someone stepped on it.

Half the palace would be looking for the King at that point, but Aramis knew the sound had not been made by any of them. Whoever had caused it, had done so unintentionally, a clumsy noise made by someone who did not wish for its presence to be known.

Aramis saw the briefest of glares, as sun caught on metal. Intuitively, he turned around, offering his back to the threat, even as his mind supplied him with the knowledge that what he had glimpsed could only be a pistol and he had no means to defend himself with the King in his arms.

The discharge sounded like distant thunder.

He could not tell if it was a father's calling or merely the reflex of a lifetime serving as a Musketeer. The only thing Aramis could think of as fire laced through his back and robbed him of his breath, was to pray the ball stayed inside him and stopped short of reaching the child in his hold.

Time passed like a skillfully thrown pebble, skimming over water as it bounced across its surface. Events and feelings bounced off Aramis' awareness, in fleeting moments in between complete darkness.

Someone screaming.

His knees hitting the ground with enough force to send a spike of pain up his legs and make his teeth rattle.

The sense of falling forward, his face connecting with the hard packed earth.

A warm body pressing against his chest, one he could not make himself let go.

Wetness, hot and sticky, spreading down his back alarmingly fast.

Footsteps.

Spanish curses filling the air.

"Shut your mouth, woman!" A man ordered, the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh quickly following. "Or the next lead ball goes between your teeth!"

Aramis knew that voice. Pushing away the pain and haze his mind had fallen into, he forced himself to focus on what was happening around him.

He could barely breathe or move, the slightest of motions enough to spark flashes of agony that threatened to send his senses into absolute oblivion.

"Turn him over," the familiar voice ordered. "I need to see if the little bastard is still alive."

 _Jonah_ , Aramis' addled mind supplied. The name bounced inside his thoughts, as it was nearly impossible to imagine the shy and mild mannered young man, who had been working for him for months, as the cruel man behind those harsh words.

The idea escaped his thoughts, as did everything else, as small, trembling fingers took hold of his arm and guided his body until he was lying on his back, the comforting heat of the body he had been holding against his chest being replaced by cold air .

The former Musketeer bit into his lip, feeling blood pooling under his teeth, much in the same way it pooled beneath his body, the only way to stop himself from screaming. Maria was being as gentle as she could, pulling him against a log and pressing her hands against the bleeding wound on his back, but it was an impossible task to perform without torturing him with every small touch.

As soon as he was able to form a coherent thought, Aramis looked down in panic, realizing that the movement had made him lose his grip on the small boy. "Th- the...Ki- King!"

"T- the Ki-ing," Jonah mocked, anger quickly taking command of his tone. "That is no King. The throne belongs to the house of Bourbon! _This._.." he stopped, looking down at the injured child. "This is nothing but a Spanish bastard sitting on a chair that does not belong to him or his kind!"

Aramis shuddered, finally understanding who the 'Spanish usurper' was meant to be. It had never been Anne or even him, it had been little Louis all along. Had Jonah intended to kill the King since the moment he had come to court? "He- he is the s- son of Louis de Bour-"

"Save what little breath you have left and spare me the lies," the young man spat. "Cousin Louis always denied it, but we all knew about the truths uncovered by Rochefort five years ago. We knew all about the fact that there isn't a drop of Bourbon blood inside this runt," he growled. "The truth about how the Spanish whore took a common soldier to her bed to father her bastard child!"

By his side, Aramis could hear Maria gasp, as she understood the implications of what Jonah was saying. He closed his eyes. Five years, and Rochefort's shadow was still haunting him, threatening the lives of those he loved with the long reach of his venom.

"It was one thing to allow that idiot to fool himself into thinking that he was raising his own son," Jonah went on, carelessly picking Louis from the ground. "It was an entirely different matter to stand idly by and watch a bastard rule France."

"Ple- please," Aramis begged. For mercy. For common sense. For a chance to trade places with his son. For God to give him the strength to just lift his arm and take hold of his pistol one last time...

One of his pistols was still hidden, in the holster at his back. The mere thought of reaching around to pull it made Aramis' stomach convulse in agony. He could not tell where the ball had hit him, but it certainly felt as if the slightest movement would tear him apart.

The pistol he had been pointing at Maria, however, had fallen to the dirt, discarded and unnoticed. It was not very far from where he lay.

Arms feeling like old leather, Aramis dragged his hand through the dirt, fingers stretching to reach the handle. A few more inches...

A boot descended upon his fingers, crushing his right hand against the dirt. The instinct to escape that new source of pain made Aramis forget about the previous one, and he recoiled, trying to pull his fingers against from the building pressure that was sure to snap them in several pieces. The sudden movement, however, sent his back into a full rebellion of spasms. Pain, a white, hot torment consumed him whole, making his entire existence spiral out of awareness for a few moments.

"Pick that up!"

There was a loud roar inside his ears and, for an instant, Aramis wondered if the young man was actually talking to him, expecting him to move. Only when he felt Maria leave his side, did Aramis realized to whom the order had been barked. He opened his eyes, fighting the dark edges that threatened to consume everything

Her hands were painted red as she grasped the fallen pistol.

"Hand it to me," he ordered, pulling the King over his shoulder to better handle the other pistol in his hands. "Now, or instead of shooting the kid while he's senseless, I'll drop him in the river to drown," he added with a cruel smile. "And we know how much you enjoy a drowned child, do we not?"

 

 

 

 

~§~

It had seemed like such an easy way to make good money, a wealthy addition to her savings, allowing her to open an establishment of her own all the sooner. The old brothel house where she had worked in her youth had closed some years before, the new girls easily finding other places to work.

The older ones, like herself and a few others, either found themselves a wealthy patron to support them or sought refuge in the homes of their grownup children.

Maria had found herself with neither. She had no patience to see to every whim of a single man and her only child had died before he could even reach the age of ten.

Passing herself as Catalina Bologna had been all too easy. There had been three women at the brothel that had Spanish origins: Guadalupe, Aramis' mother and herself. The three of them had always been close, but as the friendship between their sons grew stronger, so did the relationship between Maria and Catalina.

They told each other everything, almost as inseparable as Juné and René had been.

Juné's death and later, René's departure with his father, should have brought the two of them closer together, but instead it pushed the two women apart, each seeing in the other what they had lost.

When she had learned that little René, with his unruly hair and snotty nose, was now the First Minister of France, she could not help the feeling of envy that had consumed her. She should have said no to those men, should have remained faithful to the friendship that had once existed between her and Catalina... but all that she could think of was that her friend's son had been given all the chances and luck in the world, while Juné had been afforded no luck at all.

She had her mission, a simple task, as all she needed to do was make sure that Aramis fell in disgrace and was forced away from the position he held at Court.

Maria had not counted on Catalina's son to be such an honorable and righteous man. Or the King to affect her the way he had.

In the place where she had lived all of her life, the King was more of a fable than an actual, real person. He was the face on the coins she used to buy food; he was the one commanding her life from a distance without the two of them ever crossing paths. God's hand on Earth, tracing the path of her destiny without even knowing who she was.

She had not expected the _King_ to be like any other child, sweet and trusting, a child that reminded her so much of Juné that her heart ached whenever he walked by her in the palace corridors. His smile was genuine and freely offered to her, like she was just one more of the ladies of Court. Like she mattered.

It took less than a week for her to fall helplessly in love with that sweet child, as if he was her own flesh and blood.

When she had seen the little boy rush by her, barely holding to the reigns of his speeding pony, Maria had not thought about her mission or who she was pretending to be; she had simply run after him.

It was only ironic that the small boy who had stolen her motherly heart was the bastard son of the man she had been paid to destroy. Catalina's grandson, the _King of France_.

The thought had nearly brought a smile to her face, once the initial surprise had worn off. Had it not been for the young man pointing a pistol at them and Aramis bleeding on the ground, she would have truly smiled.

As it was, the only thing that she seemed able to do was cry. Maria felt utterly helpless as she forced herself to leave Aramis side and pick his pistol from the dirt. It felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands.

Catalina's son looked terribly pale, sweat collecting upon his brow and the hollow of his eyes; his breathing sounded so loud. And the child...

It had been scary enough to come upon the King and finding him senseless, his head bleeding from a small wound. She had no words to describe what it felt like to have that horrible man threatening to kill the poor child in the river, forcing her to help him to stop that from happening.

She could not… she would not survive watching another child drown.

The thought barely registered inside her mind, of how this person could know about her poor Juné, but as she finally recognized him as the young man working for Aramis, Maria understood. Every word ever spoken inside Aramis' office had been caught by the villainous man.

She was at lost on what to do, as she tremulously walked the distance that separated her from that horrible man. Once she gave him Aramis' pistol, all would be lost, she was certain of that.

Aramis, the poor boy, could do little more that struggle to keep on breathing, holding on to his senses and life like the fighter she had always known him to be. Their eyes met as she picked up the pistol, his gaze screaming at her to do what he lacked the strength to do, to shoot that pistol and save the King.

But she could not. The man was holding the poor child in his arms and her aim was not good enough to even try. Not only would she be risking not kill the man, but her shot could very easily hit the King instead.

Providence, however, seemed to be looking out for them on that day.

As she rose to her feet, Maria caught a glimpse of the top of the hill, where the path started. Although too far away for her to recognize any facial features, the blue in his uniform was that of a Musketeer, she was certain of that. Now, if only she could get his attention to where they were...

Maria looked at the pistol in her hands.

She had left her home in search of something better for herself; she had left it to destroy the reputation of the boy who had lived when her son had not.

Instead, she found herself in a position to forfeit her life so that the King might live...so that Catalina's boy never experienced the same devastating pain she had felt holding her son's cold, dead body.

No one should experience that.

She raised the pistol, aiming it straight at the man holding the King of France in his arms. And prayed with all her heart that the man would take her threat serious and shoot her.

~§~

It had taken them too long to realize that the King was not with any of his assigned guards nor on the gardens. The servant who had been holding the pony's reins as His Majesty walked around the gardens had been found behind the shrubbery, throat slit open and his eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.

When the pony came trotting back to the palace with no one on its back, d'Artagnan could no longer deny that everything happening in the past few minutes had been part of an elaborate diversion to isolate the King.

Of the three people those letters could have been referring to, Louis had been the one d'Artagnan felt to be safer. He was the King of France and such position tended to instill enough fear in the hearts of common men that they dared not to raise a finger to harm him.

He had been wrong. And if the King's life had been placed at risk for that mistake, d'Artagnan knew that he would never forgive himself.

Despite his denials and stubbornness in refusing to acknowledge the threat to his own person, Aramis had been the one d'Artagnan had feared for the most. From common soldier to the position of greatest power in France, it was not an ascension that many took lightly. In fact, the Captain of the Musketeers was certain that his friend had gained more than a few enemies when he'd accepted the office.

But this had never been about envy or slighted feelings. This had always been about greed and power.

Now that he thought on the matter, d'Artagnan could recognize that they had all jumped to the same wrong conclusion, when the prisoner had spoken about cleaning the throne from any Spanish influence. He and Porthos had assumed that he was referring to the Queen, but she had never been the real target.

And now the King was missing.

Aramis too was nowhere to be seen. The last person who had laid eyes on him had been the Queen, and she could barely tell where he had gone, so distraught she was by her missing son.

They had searched for them in the gardens, the palace, even the outer houses, without finding a single sign that either the King or Aramis had ever been there.

The sound of a pistol being fired was, admittedly, the last thing d'Artagnan wanted to hear under those circumstances. However, it gave them a direction on where to look, sending them all racing in the direction of the lake.

The shape of the valley and the surrounding trees offered no help in locating where the sound had come from. It had seemed to, at once, come from everywhere and nowhere at all.

It was by chance alone that d'Artagnan found himself stumbling across the most terrifying tableau he had ever seen.

Aramis on the ground, unmoving.

His aid, Jonah, holding the King in his arms, the child equally still.

And the woman who had convinced Aramis of being his mother, holding a pistol, aimed at the King.

The Gascon pushed down his anger, as it was neither the time nor the place for such sentiment. His anger, however, refused to yield in the presence of what was happening.

For days he had warned Aramis about the danger that woman could represent and, because he loved and respected his friend, he had allowed for the former Musketeer to handle matters on his own terms.

And now he found himself in a position where he could not tell if his brother was alive, if the King was alive and being forced to fire upon a woman who, being Aramis' mother or not, planned to kill the King. It made d'Artagnan's heart ache and thunder inside his chest.

In his mind, he could hear Constance' voice, her steady resolve and calm tenacity, telling him that there really was no choice at his disposal. The King -God forbid if he was already dead- was in danger and it was his duty as a Captain and as a Musketeer, to safe-keep his life and honor at all cost.

The cost, however, was a steep one.

Closing his eyes for a moment, to pray for the soul of the woman he was about to kill and the end of a friendship that meant everything for him, d'Artagnan raised his arm and aimed his pistol.

~§~

Aramis felt like he was sitting in a theater, watching one of those Greek tragedies being played, one to which he already knew the ending. Every character died.

Maria's hands shook as she raised her arms, the pistol nearly bouncing on her fingers. He had no doubt that she had never fired a pistol before in her life and it terrified him to think that she would do it now, with Louis so close.

Jonah was still holding the King in his arms, having no qualms about using him as a shield, laughing at the poor woman's attempts to face him. The level of threat he saw in her was such that he couldn't even seemed to bother to point his own pistol to her.

"You plan to shoot me?" Jonah asked in mockery. "Please, do so," he invited, pulling the King closer to his chest. "France will thank you!"

Maria sobbed, trading one fleeting glance with Aramis. Brief as it was, it told him more than he wished to know, more than his heart could bear.

She was saying goodbye. And, for whatever reason that Aramis could not understand, the prospect of losing her made his heart fill with deep sorrow and pain. This woman, who should mean nothing to him, who had sought him on false pretenses and been paid to destroy him, as well as the memory of his mother. Juné's mother...and he could not bear to watch her lay down her life _pointlessly_.

And her sacrifice would be pointless, he was certain of that. With the King's body covering most of the intended target, it would take nothing short of an expert marksman to make such an impossible shot, and, currently, the only marksman available could do nothing more than struggle to hold on to his senses.

She would never be able to hit Jonah accurately enough to kill him and her shot would end up either further injuring the King or becoming a mere nuisance to the killer.

Aramis opened his mouth to protest, to stop her, but he was too late. He closed his eyes as she placed her finger on the trigger. For the first time in his life, the former Musketeer found himself lacking the courage to watch what happened next.

Two shots filled the air in quick succession, closely followed by a third.

It was the third shot that made Aramis open his eyes against his will. The sight that greeted him was enough to cause a surge of strength inside his body that he was sure he could no longer possess.

Maria was on the ground, blood spreading across the middle of her satin dress like a hurried, blooming flower. Her eyes, glassy, were fixed on the King, who had fallen on the grass near her, free from any new injuries. As a smile spread across her lips, Aramis knew that it was not Louis whom she was seeing.

Jonah was on his knees, his hands pressing against his side. Blood leaked from between his fingers, small drops that fell into the dirt unnoticed. The left leg of his breeches looked ripped below his knee and, as Aramis watched, he could see the fine fabric slowly turning a darker shade.

Maria had taken no chances, Aramis could see that now. She had aimed low, as far from the King's body as she could, choosing the child's safety over her own. But who had fired the third pistol, the one that had hit Jonah on his side?

Two shots had hit Jonah, but despite that, it was not pain that Aramis could see in the man's eyes, but anger. The young man growled like a wounded animal as he started to drag himself forward.

At first, Aramis believed that he was trying to escape, even if it seemed impossible to imagine him reaching any reasonable distance. However, too soon it became apparent that the distance the killer was trying to shorten was not between himself and freedom; it was between himself and his target.

The First Minister opened his mouth to shout a warning, to try and protect the King with whatever words came out of his lips, but his body had other ideas. Air rushed in and his throat convulsed in a coughing fit that blackened his vision for a moment.

Aramis blinked furiously, willing his eyes to work. He needed to make sure that his foolish attempt to scream hadn't sent him into oblivion for so long that everything was over.

His chest clenched painfully as his sight finally focus and he could see, at a distance, Jonah, smiling in satisfaction as his fingers wrapped themselves around the King's fragile neck.

Louis was fighting, his senses finally returned to him, but his small arms could do little to push away the bigger and stronger adult.

For the second time in a short span of minutes, Aramis found himself acting without pausing to consider the consequences to himself, or even to question his ability to achieve what he was aiming for. He could not question that and damn be his body if it chose now of all times to betray him.

His limbs felt numb and chilled, clothing sticking to his back as blood still ran free. His eyes seemed determined to close without consulting his wishes on the matter and when opened, Aramis felt like he was seeing the world through a tinted glass that made everything look, in turn, completely red or in tones of black and white.

Aramis threw himself sideways, his body connecting with the dirt in a agonizing jolt that he refused to acknowledge. Instead, he reached for his pistol as he rolled, back igniting in pain. Aramis ignored it once again, his sole focus being the ball inside that weapon and the place where it needed to be directed.

And then, the best marksman that the Musketeers regiment had ever seen in a long while, did something that he had never done in his life. Aramis did not aim; he simply trusted God and his instincts and fired.

The pain he'd managed to forestall, but remained at the edges of his awareness, finally broke free of the boundaries of despair that Aramis had set. It hit him like the kick of a thousand horses, finally pushing him into the darkness.

Two bodies hit the ground simultaneously. Aramis, as he lost the battle against his senses, and Jonah, as he lost his life.

~§~

"Is he awake yet, _maman_?" a child asked.

"Hush, my love," a woman's voice replied gently. "Remember what doctor Hugo said about Aramis needing his rest."

A heavy sigh preceded the sound of small feet walking across the floor. "Yes, _maman_."

Aramis found himself smiling, content with the feeling of a soft bed under his chest and the voices of the two people he loved the most filling the oppressing silence of the room. It seemed, in fact, too idyllic to be true. "Surely I must be dead," he whispered, hugging his pillow closer. "For this can only be Heaven."

"Only if the gates of Heaven are preceded by a week of Hell," Anne's soft tone answered him. Her voice sounded tired and tremulous, as if she was holding back her tears.

The idyllic dream shattered, Aramis forced his eyes open, unable to ignore reality any longer.

He was in his room at the palace, and it was indeed the Queen Regent and the King that he could see near his bed. In his dream, they had both looked well rested and happy.

Reality was much different.

Anne had dark smudges of tiredness under her eyes and the skin of her face looked bloated and pale, in a way that not even that white powder that she sometime wore on her cheeks, could equal.

Louis looked ill as well, his cheeks hollowed as no child's should, his face as pale as Anne's. A recent cut crossed his forehead, red against the whiteness of his skin, still healing.

The memories of all that had come to pass near the lake had never been far from Aramis' thoughts since he had opened his eyes, but to see the consequences of those events made him tremble in fear, as he realized how truly lucky they had been. If Maria had not sacrificed her life, if that mysterious third shot had not been fired, if he had missed his own shot...

But all of those vital events had happened, in the most fortuitous of manners and Louis was _there_ , smiling shyly at him, seemingly unaware of how close his life had come from being extinguished.

Such innocence, however, had clearly not been afforded to the Queen, her eyes alert and barely refusing to look elsewhere but her son. Breathing, healthy...alive!

"Are you well?" Anne asked, concerned with his shivering, her hand resting against his bare shoulder in disregard for all propriety. "Are you in pain? Do you feel feverish? Sickness? I can send for the phys-"

"Please, Your Majesty," Aramis interrupted, unable to control the smile that took over his lips at her nervous display of sincere worry. "I feel perfectly fine," he assured her.

To prove his point, the former Musketeer decided that it was time to show the members of the Royal family in his room the respect that they deserved, and push himself into a less compromising position on his bed. It would, perhaps, be too soon to get to his feet and dress himself properly, but he could at least turn on his back and sit like a gentleman with some manners. There was, after all, nothing wrong with his arms.

That his injury was in his back and that, surely, that was the reason why he found himself currently lying on his stomach, had completely escaped Aramis' rational thoughts.

He dared to move, and lived to regret it.

The next time he woke, there was a woman sitting next to his bed, but it was not the Queen. "You're a downright fool," Constance offered as greeting. "And you scared the Queen...and the King...good thing she loves you, or else you'd in a cell by now," she added, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

Aramis closed his eyes in defeat. She was right. "Are they well?"

Madame D'Artagnan sighed, busying herself with setting the bed linens straight. "These haven't been easy days for anyone," she said. "There was some concern about the King's injury. The physicians were afraid that he'd hit his little head too hard," she explained, resting a reassuring hand over Aramis' head as the news stole the color from his face. "Ah...no doing that again! You've slept long enough," she warned. "Everyone was worried about you too, in case it hadn't occurred to you yet. And the King's fine now... you saw him," she reminded Aramis.

The injured man nodded, settling back on the bed. His back didn't hurt as badly as before and he found he could shift around without blacking out, making him wonder exactly how long it had been since he'd spoken to the Queen. "D'Artagnan and Porthos?"

It was strange to find himself in a sick bed, but stranger still to not have his friends by his side. Every other time one of them had fallen ill, the others had been there, tending to his needs, offering companionship.

That had been, of course, _before_. Before Athos had fallen in love with a good woman and out of love with his mission; before Porthos had been dispatched to the front to be a leader of men, before Aramis had moved to the Louvre to become Treville's replacement...

"They rode to the d'Bourbon lands right after the attack," Constance explained, her hands twisting in her lap. "Porthos wanted to get there ahead of the news that Jonah had failed and catch the rest of the conspirators before they could flee," she went on, her eyes turning cold and hard as steel. "Shame on those people, plotting to murder such a precious, little child... that whole side of the family is just rotten, if you ask me."

"They know," Aramis whispered. He couldn't hear anyone else in the room, but the walls at the Louvre had a reputation for being thin and filled with holes. "That is why Jonah wanted Louis dead... because he _knew_ , Constance."

Aramis held her gaze, his eyes voicing what he could not speak freely. She had been one of the first people to know about the true parentage of Anne's child, and her lips had never faltered when it came to protecting such secret. She knew exactly of what he spoke.

"The Queen was very firm in her orders, Aramis," Constance reassured him. "None of them will ever see the light of the sun ever again."

The First Minister relaxed against his pillow, the surge of worry and helplessness having left him completely drained. "Good..."

"You rest now," she ordered softly. "Nothing will please them more when they return than to see you back on your feet and with some color on those cheeks. Deadly pale does not suit you, at all."

Aramis smiled sluggishly at her teasing. "And Maria?" he asked, already half asleep.

The look of confusion that covered Constance's face went completely unnoticed. "Who?"

"The woman who-" Aramis faltered, all of the conflicting feelings he had towards the imposter proving to be too overwhelming for him to deal at present time. "-my mother," he finished, for lack of a better word.

Constance averted her eyes, looking at the floor before finding the courage to answer him. "We couldn't wait for you to feel better," she explained, holding his hand. "She had the burial that she deserved, as mother of the First Minister of France and savior of the King," she went on, "but no one really knew her family name, so we buried her as Catalina d' Aramis...you can change that after, but we tho-"

Aramis was no longer listening, his body having its own agenda over his need to know all the details of what had happened to Maria. He simply closed his eyes, deep in sleep before his thoughts could catch up to the fact that his mother now had two different tombs.

~§~

_Catalina d'Aramis._

The simple tombstone was adorn with nothing more than an elegant _fleur de lis_ and a name that didn't belonged to the body resting beneath it.

The graveyard at the Louvre was small and reserved to the Royal family and friends. Life had not been kind to Maria, cruelly robbing her of a chance to raise her child and watch him grow, denying her true happiness at every step of the way until she had decided to give her life to save the King. In death, Aramis reckoned, Maria had earned her right to have something good. She was right where she belonged.

His mother, his real mother, would understand. He could almost feel Catalina's gentle smile upon him as he bent down carefully to place a single white rose over the stone of Maria's grave.

His back flared up in pain despite his slow movements. The ball, doctor Hugo had explained him, had caused some damage to his right lung as it passed, finally being stopped by his ribs, fracturing two as they stopped its progress. Had it not been for that, the ball would have passed clean through, probably to lodge itself inside the King.

It would take some time for Aramis to be able to move freely or take a deep breath without some discomfort, but he could not be more grateful for that.

Still, the former Musketeer closed his eyes for a moment, silently willing his body to return to its previous form and cease to embarrass him already.

"Had I known you would attempt to get yourself killed in your first year as First Minister, I would never haver recommended you for the job."

Taken aback by the familiar voice, Aramis froze. He turned slowly, not wanting to provoke his back into another fit and in fear that the sound had been nothing but his mind playing cruel tricks on him.

Athos, however was indeed there, more relaxed than he had ever seen him, eyes soft and filled with mischief in a way that the former Comte rarely indulged.

Aramis smile widened. He felt emotion swallow anything he might have said and instead, approached his long absent friend, arms out, ready to draw him into to a welcoming hug. He did not expected for his friend to step back instead, avoiding his touch like the carried the plague. Aramis halted and gazed quizzically at him, trying not to feel hurt.

Athos saw the confusion in his eyes, trading the hug for a warm kiss on his brother's cheek. "I was informed of your recent, grievous injury and thoroughly warned that I was not, under any circumstances, to aid in ruining someone else's needlework," he explained with a smile.

Aramis raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Constance?"

"Constance," Athos confirmed with a nod, carefully nudging the former Musketeer to sit on a nearby bench, taking a place beside him. "I fear she may be watching us," he confessed in mock fright. "Although, we did dispatched d'Artagnan ahead to distract her," he added with a wink.

"We?" Aramis asked, hoping that perhaps Sylvie and Athos' child had come as well.

"Porthos made a small detour before joining us," Athos explained, even as a variety of delicious smells hit them.

"It is good to see you above ground, my friend," the big man called out, nodding in greeting to both men. His hands, as it were, were too occupied with the tray of cheese and cold meats that he had coerced from the kitchens. Two baskets hung from his arms, one filled with bread and the other with fruit.

"I couldn't agree more," Athos clasped Aramis gently on the upper arm and moving to help the General. "Did you forget th-"

Porthos held up one brow, preventing the former Captain from saying anything more. "I'm a master tactician, after all," he said with a hearty laugh, handing over the tray before producing a hidden bottle of wine from one of his pockets. "The other pockets are just as gifted," he promised with a wink.

"So, is it to tactics that I owe this feast for the heart and stomach?" Aramis asked, eyeing his friends and the food suspiciously.

"Our new home isn't far from the d'Bourbon lands," Athos explained, his eyes losing their mirth and turning serious once again. "When d'Artagnan first wrote me about his suspicions, I wanted, with all my heart, to ride to your aid," he confessed in all honesty. "But Sylvie was nearing her time and, as much as she assured me that my presence was not needed anywhere near the birthing bed, I could not leave her at such a time."

Aramis could only nod, taking his friend's hand in reassurance that, despite the guilt in his voice, there was nothing to forgive.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan told me all that happened afterwards," Athos went on, grasping his friend's fingers in gratitude. "Sylvie was most vehement in her opinions that now was the perfect time for the three of us to pay a visit to our family," he added with a happy smile that quickly vanished as his eyes landed on the fresh grave. "I am truly sorry for your loss, my friend."

"And I owe you an honest apology," Porthos blurted out, running a hand through his hair before holding himself almost at attention. "I was a bad friend, judging you for your origins when you never made a single comment about mine. And...it was ungentlemanly of me, the things I said about your mother, doubting who she was and thinking her a murderer," he voiced, lowering his eyes in shame. "Forgive m-"

Aramis smiled, even if the gesture lacked its usual joviality. "Catalina d'Bologna, my mother, was a fierce and passionate woman, with a heart the size of the world," he said tenderly. "I don't know exactly how or when she died, I know only that my father presented me with the news of her passing on my fourteenth birthday."

The First Minister gave his confused friends a moment, patiently waiting for them to read the inscription on the grave.

"So," Athos started, finding his voice if not the right words, "who was this?"

Aramis thought long about what to answer. He had met Maria twice in his life. First, as child, when her son unwillingly -and unknowingly- became the driving force behind his enlistment in the Musketeers. And then, for just a few weeks, as she lived at the palace where, even though he had never allowed himself to fully think of her as his mother, she had gradually become a comforting and welcomed presence in his life. "She was a friend. A brave woman," he finally said. "A good mother... just not my own."

Silence fell upon the three friends, not somber or uncomfortable, but respectful and understanding, as they shared the bottle of wine between them. The kind of silence that was not out of place between brothers.

"Speaking of brave women," Aramis said after a time, breaking the quietness, "where are your poor, long-suffering wives?"

"Poor?" Porthos sputtered, mockingly offended.

"Long-suffering?" Athos asked, his eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Aramis smiled mischievously. "Certainly! I can imagine all too well the horror of having to put up with the likes of you two miscreants…"

Athos smirked. "If you must… Sylvie is at the palace right now," he informed. "The Queen _demanded_ to meet baby Raoul as soon as we arrived," he added with a fond smile.

Aramis smiled, knowing all too well the pleasure and sheer love one felt when talking about a son or daughter. " _Raul,_ " he tested the sound in his mouth. "I cannot wait to meet him as well!" Aramis added, truly enthusiastic to see the little soul who had helped, along with his mother, to put such life back into Athos' eyes. "What about Elodie and your little Marie-Cessette… it has been awhile since I've last seen th-"

The former Musketeer paused, noticing the way Porthos had traded the cheese for his lip, nervously chewing on it, his eyes glued to the ground. "Porthos?"

The large man shuffled a bit, making a grab for the nearly empty bottle. "I'm afraid Elodie might be a bit miffed with me at the moment," he mumbled, taking a large gulp of wine. "Ihaven'texactlybeenhomeyetsincearriving."

Aramis traded an amused look with Athos, trying to gauge if his friend had understood the same. "You haven't bee-… why?"

Porthos leveled his gaze at the younger man. "Well, haven't exactly been sitting around, twirling my thumbs either, have I?" he offered, guardedly. "Between sorting out who the murder was, watching you bleed like a stuck pig, and riding away to make sure none of the men involved got away, there hasn't been much time to actually go home and show my face…"

"Does she even know you are in Paris?" Athos asked, looking like he was afraid of the answer. Being the only one of the three who had, not only been married the longest, but the only one having done it twice, he was somewhat of an expert on the matter.

"Of course she does!" Porthos protested, crossing his arms defensively. "I sent word."

"You sent wor-," Aramis repeated. "You're a dead man, my friend," he sentenced with a chuckle, clapping Porthos' back reassuringly.

Porthos opened his mouth to argue, only to slam it shut, teeth clicking loudly together.

"You are certainly in deep trouble," Athos offered, more kind and hopeful in his words.

"I'd say so," Constance offered, walking towards them with her hand holding d'Artagnan's firmly in her grasp. "It's not very nice to keep a lady waiting like that, Porthos," she added with a wink.

"You two have already talked, haven't ya?" Porthos realized, recognizing the glint in Madame d'Artagnan's eyes. He sighed, shoulders deflating. "I'm pretty much doomed, aren't I?"

Constance said nothing, except to offer a mischievous smile that promised retribution as soon as the General set foot in his home. "And you," she voiced, shifting her attention to Aramis, one finger pointed in his direction. "You said that you'd be taking a short walk through the gardens," she accused, looking around the secluded place where they stood. "This is neither short nor the gardens, is it?"

The shift in scolding had been too sudden for Aramis not to be caught with an amused smile upon his lips, one that quickly made itself scarce when faced with Constance's scowl. Chastised, the First Minister submitted to Constance's gentle shoving towards the palace. It would be pointless to try and argue with her, particularly when he was actually feeling tired and in need of rest. Still, he couldn't resist throwing a pleading look towards his friends, as the petite woman marched him towards his quarters like an misbehaved toddler.

~§~

D'Artagnan smiled, even as his eyes fell upon the grave that Aramis had been visiting. He opened his mouth to call out to his friend, no doubt to offer the same unnecessary apologies that Porthos had offered, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

It would be a long time before he would stop waking up covered in sweat and shaking like a leaf, haunted by dark dreams where his reactions were not fast enough and he ended up shooting Aramis' mother rather than Jonah.

It had been so close, on that dreadful day. So very close.

His pistol had been ready, the woman in his sights, when he saw her lower her weapon and fire upon Jonah's leg rather than the King. Only then had d'Artagnan seen the weapon on the man's hand and realized who the true killer was, giving him only seconds to adjust his aim and shoot the man instead.

And after that… the feeling of not being fast enough as he ran down the path, the helplessness of not having a second pistol or the time to recharge his, the frustration of watching as an injured Jonah still advanced on the King, obsessed with killing him...

A hand on his arm stopped d'Artagnan's dark trail of thoughts. He looked up, to Athos telling look, silently asking him to not address the matter at the moment. To let it go. "We'll tell you all about it later," the older man offered.

"And you," Athos went on, turning his attention towards Porthos, who looked like he was seriously considering escaping to the front instead of facing his wife. "I know an excellent patisserie nearby," the former Captain offered, placing a hand across his friend's tense shoulders. "If I'm not mistaken, there you will find a delicacy for sale there that is fabled as working absolute miracles upon all angry women."

Porthos turned around, suddenly very interested in such a marvelous invention. "Yea..? And what magical potion might that be?"

"Not a potion...Chocolate, _mon ami_ ," Athos let out. "Chocolate!"

~§~

If left up to the Crown's physicians, Constance and the others, Aramis would only be returning to his duties by the turn of the new year. At best.

In truth, he still found himself tiring easily and climbing the many stairs of the palace often left him out of breath. Despite that, there was one important matter that he had left unresolved for far too long and needed urgent attending.

"My Lords, gentlemen," he greeted the men already inside the room, slowly walking to his chair. "Thank you for answering my summoning on such a short notice," he went on, carefully sitting down. Certain movements were still sure to make his back protest in pain and the current meeting was too important for him to conduct it through a haze of pain.

"We were told it was a matter of the utmost importance," Lord Simeon spoke, his dark eyes wide at the prospect of impending doom. The events of the spring feast were all too recent and fresh in their memories. "Has something else happened?"

"Is it another plot against the Royal family? Or perhaps the nobility?" Lord Dumont asked, nervously wiping his face on a over-laced handkerchief.

"Are we in danger?" Lord d'Herbert questioned, shifting around in his chair, apparently looking for the source of such danger inside the room. Any loud noise in that exact moment, and the man would probably jump out from the window.

Instead of answering their amounting questions and growing sense of unease, Aramis simply produced a small item from his pocket and placed it on the table, in clear view of all.

Of the eight men sitting around the table, only three seemed unfazed and unamused to find themselves looking at a worn out wooden horse. Aramis' sharp eyes noted their reaction even before they could think to mask it.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Minion sputtered, getting to his feet as he picked up the little figure, turning it in his large hands. "We have better ways to occupy our time than to waste it on—on... children's toys!"

Aramis fixed a hard gaze on the man, his eyes unyielding until Minion set the figurine down and sat in his chair.

"Gentlemen," he started, his voice low and dangerous, a tone that the men inside that room had never heard from him, but the criminals inside the Chatelêt were well familiar with. "You know who you are, what you have _tried_ to do and, more importantly," he said, pausing to look at the three men who had suddenly started to sweat profusely, "the woman you paid told me _exactly_ who you are before she passed away."

Aramis paused, letting his bluff sink in. Although Maria had never learned the name of the men who had paid her to undermine the First Minister's position, their reaction at his words made it exceedingly easy to guess who they were. Dumont, Simeon and Minion seemed ready to faint in their seats. "I am here to offer you a choice... either leave now and never return to this council, or meet me tomorrow, at dawn, to settle this as gentlemen..."

"Dueling, as you well know, is illegal!" Minion let out, his face red at the prospect. "I would ne-"

"So is treason and plotting against a member of the council," Aramis reminded him calmly, his eyes hard as steel. "I have made my offer... do with it as you see most fit," he finished, rising from his chair in a sign of clear dismissal of the council.

As he crossed the doors and closed them behind himself, enclosing a room filled with confused and scared men inside, Aramis could not help but smile.

There were certain advantages that came from being known as the best marksman of the King's elite regiment, one of them being that no man was foolish enough to face him in a duel.

Come morning, Aramis was certain that the Royal council would be three men short, without a single musket ball being fired.

And if, even away, those three dared to continue plotting against him and Anne, well… there was always Milady.

~§~

The King had insisted on gifting Aramis with anything he desired, as a sign of gratitude for the part he had played in saving his life and for the loss of his mother.

That Louis, at such a young age, had become so acquainted with death and his own mortality, that he would feel the need to reward those who had safeguarded his life, filled Aramis' heart with sorrow. It felt as if he had somehow failed to protect his son from the horrors of the world and had contributed to shattering his innocence far too early.

The boy's mind had been confused as to the exact details of what had happened by the lake, his memories scattered and disjointed. But he remembered enough; Aramis holding him, the blood soaking the ground after the First Minister had been shot, Maria and Jonah, staring at him with dead eyes.

He had been the only one aware when d'Artagnan had finally reached them. The small boy had shuffled closer to Aramis as best as he could, crying as he believed the First Minister dead like the others, before collapsing upon his lap.

Anne had confessed to Aramis that the King was constantly plagued with nightmares of those violent events, often needing to be walked to Aramis' quarters to be reassured that his protector was indeed alive and well. God willing, it would pass, but until then they had no choice but to satisfy the boy's need to see them alive and happy, near him.

It was hardly a strenuous task.

It didn't matter that, to Aramis, he could lose his life a thousand times with a smile on his lips, if it meant to save Louis and keep him safe. It mattered only that the King would sleep better if he believed he had made Aramis happy with his generous offer.

The King wanted to show his gratitude and the First Minister's only choice was to gracefully accept. Aramis, the father, could only feel his heart swell with pride at his son's' actions and caring heart.

So he asked for a portrait to hang in his office.

He had given the painter very specific instructions about the features and details of the two women depicted on the canvas, one with long flowing strawberry-blond hair, the other with vivacious brunette curls.

When asked, he would say that the two women in the portrait were his mother and her closest sister, leaving it to the beholder to guess which was which.

To him, it was a reminder. Of the woman Catalina had been, of a face he should have never forgotten and of Maria, a woman who deserved to be remembered.

The end

 

 

[ ](https://c5.staticflickr.com/6/5795/30993863340_7fc437c35a_z.jpg)


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